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UBKAhlf 
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DIVERSITY  OF  ILUNr  $ 


* 


Susan  Warner 


From  a Daguerreotype 


Susan  Warner 

(“Elizabeth  Wetherell”) 


By 

Anna  B.  W arner 


Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling  place  in  all  generations. 

Psalm  xc.,  i 


Illustrated 


G.  P.  Putnam’s  Sons 
New  York  and  London 
Cbe  Iknicherbockec  press 

1909 


Copyright,  1909 

BY 

ANNA  B.  WARNER 


TEbe  Tknfcfcerbocftcr  flJr c*«.  t\eve  Itforft 


■£> 


PREFACE 

If  ever  this  book  is  printed  and  read,  at  two  things, 
I doubt  not  some  people  will  wonder.  First,  at  our 
strange,  exceptional  life,  and  then  that  I should  be 
willing  to  tell  it  so  freely. 

I was  not  willing.  I am  by  nature  a terribly  secretive 
person,  and  it  goes  hard  with  me  to  tell  anybody  what 
is  nobody’s  business.  Furthermore,  our  home  life 
was  so  unendingly  precious,  that  it  hurts  me  to  have 
it  gazed  at  by  cold  and  careless  eyes ; this  also  is  true. 

But  a faithful  chronicler  must  not  please  himself. 
I could  not  truly  set  forth  my  sister’s  character,  without 
giving  the  surroundings  among  which  it  took  shape 
and  strength. 

For  the  rest,  I have  no  call  to  be  sensitive.  New 
England  blood  is  never  ashamed  of  any  work  that 
ought  to  be  done ; and  no  believer  has  cause  to  cover 
his  face,  in  any  spot  where  his  dear  Lord  sees  fit  to 
bid  him  dwell ; for  work,  for  service,  or  for  the  mere 
polishing  attrition. 


West  Point , N.  Y.y  April , igog. 


A.  B.  W. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 


Past  Generations 


CHAPTER  II 

Inheritance  of  Work 


The  Father 


The  Mother 


Baby  Days 


CHAPTER  III 


CHAPTER  IV 


CHAPTER  V 


CHAPTER  VI 

Worlds  to  Conquer  . 


The  Little  Queen 


The  Tall  Girl  . 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CHAPTER  IX 

Young  Fairyland 


CHAPTER  X 


Riches  Take  Wings 


PAGE 

I 

10 

17 

23 

3i 

• 39 

62 

. 87 

. 103 

169 


VI 


Contents 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  XI 

Shadow  and  Light  . . . . . ,196 

CHAPTER  XII 

More  Lessons  .......  206 

CHAPTER  XIII 

At  Home  and  Away  . . . . . .226 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Scheming  ........  261 

CHAPTER  XV 

The  Turning  Tide  ......  277 

CHAPTER  XVI 

Writing,  Writing  . . . . . .322 

CHAPTER  XVII 

The  Rising  Tide  ....  . . 351 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Good  Years  .......  377 

CHAPTER  XIX 

The  Winter  of  1884-1885  .....  496 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Susan  Warner  .....  Frontispiece 
From  a Daguerreotype. 

Mrs.  Colonel  Whiting,  Great-Grandmother  of 


Miss  Warner  .......  8 

From  an  Oil  Painting. 

Henry  W.  Warner  . . . . . .16 

From  a Miniature. 

Mrs.  Henry  W.  Warner  .....  22 

From  a Miniature. 

A Child  Portrait  of  Anna  B.  Warner  . . 86 

From  a Miniature. 

The  Old  House  at  “Queechy”  ....  104 

From  a Pencil  Drawing  by  Anna  B.  Warner. 


Thomas  Warner,  Chaplain  and  Professor  U.  S. 
Military  Academy,  1828-1838  ....  140 

From  a Miniature. 

View  of  Constitution  Island  from  West  Point  158 

Susan  Warner  .......  196 

From  a Water  Color  by  Anna  B.  Warner. 

Frances  L.  Warner— “Aunt  Fanny”  . . . 252 

From  a Photograph  by  F.  Forshew. 

Martlaer’s  Rock,  Constitution  Island 

(House  of  Susan  Warner)  ....  280 

From  a Photograph. 


Vll 


Vlll 


Illustrations 


PAGE 

The  Old  Saw  Mill  at  “Queechy”  . . . 356 

From  a Pencil  Sketch  by  Anna  B.  Warner. 

The  Study  in  the  House  at  Martlaer’s  Rock, 
in  which  Most  of  “The  Wide,  Wide  World” 
was  Written  .......  380 

Henry  W.  Warner  ......  438 

From  a Photograph  by  F.  Forshew. 

Anna  B.  Warner  ......  450 

From  a Photograph  by  W.  Kurtz. 

Latest  Photograph  of  Susan  Warner  . . 496 

From  a Photograph  by  W.  Kurtz. 


My  love , they  want  me  to  tell  about  you;  and  if  I can , 
I must.  They  write  me  from  England  and  America  that 
back  of  such  bo.oks  as  yours  there  must  be  a faith  worth 
hearing  about , a life  that  should  be  told.  And  I,  know- 
ing how  utterly  true  that  is,  know  too  how  hard  the  work 
will  be,  how  difficult  to  do  aright.  Who  can  describe 
my  darling  as  I saw  her  f But  I must  try. 

If  I seem  to  quote  a great  deal  from  the  old  letters , 
it  is  partly  because  there  is  no  one  now  living  in  this 
world  who  can  answer  my  questions  or  tell  me  anything 
about  those  early  times  at  home.  And  the  letters  are 
sure  to  be  correct. 

So  also,  her  own  journals  give  far  better  than  any  words 
of  mine  the  growth  of  the  young  life,  and  the  atmosphere 
in  which  it  grew.  I have  tried  to  put  in  nothing  irrele- 
vant; but  with  everything  so  interesting  to  me,  it  was  often 
hard  to  choose. 


IX 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF 
SUSAN  WARNER 


CHAPTER  I 

PAST  GENERATIONS 

Long  ago  I heard  it  said  (and  I know  not  how  truly) 
that  about  a stranger,  three  of  our  big  cities  would 
ask  each  a different  question:  Boston  saying,  “What 
is  she?”  ; Philadelphia,  “Who  is  she?”;  and  New  York’s 
business  mind  demanding,  “What  has  she?”.  The 
first  and  the  last  of  these  queries  will  find  sufficient 
answer  as  my  book  goes  on:  the  “brotherly  love” 
curiosity  may  have  a few  words  here. 

“We  were  Puritans  but  not  Pilgrims,”  said  someone 
in  my  hearing : but  we  were  both.  Several  ‘ ‘ Mayflower  ’ ’ 
names  head  the  list  on  my  father’s  side,  in  his  mother’s 
line;  and  all,  except  the  Huguenot  Priscilla  Moulins 
of  English  birth.  His  father’s  family  came  also  from 
England,  a few  years  later,  and  settled  at  Ipswich, 
Mass. 

On  my  mother’s  side,  Robert  Bartlett  of  Plymouth 
came  over  from  England  in  the  “Anne,”  and  was  the 
direct  ancestor  of  her  father,  Isaac  Bartlett.  Her 
mother  was  a Marsh  from  England,  by  the  way  of 
Salem,  I think.  Mixed  in  with  all  of  these  is  a tangle 


2 


Susan  Warner 


of  names:  Lothrop,  Lupton,  Morton,  Saltonstall, 
Warren,  and  I know  not  how  many  others,  of  so  much 
less  interest  to  other  people  than  to  me,  that  the  subject 
may  be  dropped  just  here.  Though  I am  happy  to 
say,  that  two  of  our  Salem  forebears  publicly  protested 
against  the  deeds  which  have  made  the  pretty  town  so 
famous.  We  also  claim  kindred  with  one  of  the  first 
preachers  in  the  old,  old  church  of  Roger  Williams 
at  Salem ; where  the  rarely  beautiful  Church  covenant 
of  that  small  band  of  worshippers  may  yet  be 
seen. 

Then  one  ancestor  fought  at  Hastings  and  another 
at  Agincourt:  there  is  a far-off  glimpse  of  Whitting- 
ton and  his  cat;  while  for  a collateral  ancestor,  stands 
the  last  Bishop  or  Abbot  of  Rievaulx,  who  showed  at 
least  one  of  the  family  characteristics,  by  dying  for  the 
truth  as  he  saw  it. 

So  varied  a race  must  have  had  many  a strange  tra- 
dition: happily,  I know  too  few  to  let  them  clog  my 
pages.  One,  significant  and  suggestive,  touches  a far- 
back  ancestor  of  my  great  grandmother,  Rebecca 
Lupton. 

He  sailed  with  ship  and  cargo  from  Boston  to  Con- 
stantinople, and  while  in  the  latter  city,  fell  deadly 
ill.  Surrounded  by  Moslems,  they  proffered  him  the 
best  they  knew;  having  plainly  a sort  of  liking  for  the 
man.  “Embrace  Islam,”  they  said,  “and  the  value 
of  ship  and  cargo  shall  be  sent  home  to  your  family  and 
you  shall  be  buried  in  the  earth.  But  if  not,  ship  and 
cargo  will  be  confiscated,  and  you  will  be  put  in  the 
sand  below  high-water  mark.” 

To  all  which,  my  many  times  great  grandfather 
made  answer,  that  first,  his  family  could  do  without 
the  money;  and  for  his  body,  it  mattered  little  what 


Past  Generations 


3 


became  of  that;  but  he  could  not  afford  to  lose  his 
soul.  And  as  he  decided,  so  it  was  done:  for  dying 
shortly  thereafter,  his  grave  was  dug  in  the  sea-swept 
sand,  somewhere  along  the  Turkish  coast. 

A fine  heirloom  of  faith  and  practice  came  down  to  his 
descendants,  and  well  did  they  guard  it.  My  great 
grandmother,  aforesaid,  is  described  as  a woman  of 
extreme  energy,  “ faculty,”  and  executive  force.  As  in- 
deed she  had  need  to  be,  with  a family  of  three  girls  and 
nine  boys.  The  nine,  when  they  were  grown,  averaged 
six  feet  in  height;  nor  were  the  daughters  far  behind. 
One  of  them  could  knit  a pair  of  men’s  stockings, — 
“Long  ones,  remember,  up  to  the  knee,” — in  a day. 
Another  would  make  a fine  linen  shirt — stitched  and 
ruffled — in  the  same  brief  measure  of  time,  and  hem  a 
man’s  big  white  cravat  after  it. 

As  for  the  boys,  they  one  and  all  followed  their 
father  into  the  Continental  Army ; down  to  the  fifteen 
year  old  stripling  who  would  not  be  left  behind,  and 
being  too  young  for  heavy  service,  took  fife  in  hand  and 
cheered  on  the  rest.  I came  upon  some  of  the  State 
archives  one  day,  and  found  the  enlistment  roll  where 
the  brothers  had  entered  their  names, — John,  William, 
Jonathan,  Lupton,  Daniel,  James,  Jason. — It  gave  me  a 
strange  stir  of  heart.  Think  of  the  little  throng  of 
(almost)  boys,  crowding  in  to  offer  their  lives.  She 
gave  a good  deal  for  the  cause,  that  mother. 

It  is  told  of  her,  that  when  a tarring  and  feathering 
party  came  by  one  day  and  demanded  a pillow  for  the 
benefit  of  some  Tory  spy,  she  sent  out  the  best  one  she 
had,  by  the  hands  of  her  young  son.  This  was  in 
Columbia  Co.,  N.  Y.,  whither  the  family  had  re- 
moved from  Massachusetts. 

Jason  Warner  was  our  grandfather;  six  feet  two,  and 


4 


Susan  Warner 


of  such  strength  that  he  could  take  a man  by  the  throat 
and  hold  him  back  against  the  wall  with  one  hand. 
At  the  close  of  the  War  (after  a still  popular  custom) 
he  married  his  Colonel’s  daughter;  and  finally  estab- 
lished himself  at  Canaan,  N.  Y.,  where  the  older  genera- 
tions of  both  families  had  been  pioneers.  The  two 
names — Whiting  and  Warner — filled  up  the  town  for 
many  a long  day. 

There  my  grandfather  cleared  his  land  and  tilled  his 
acres ; spending  sundry  winters  in  the  State  Legislature 
at  Albany ; and  in  the  summer  evenings  watched  from 
his  front  porch  the  last  wolves,  as  they  stole  down  the 
road  in  the  twilight,  to  survey  their  old  domain. 

In  front  of  his  house  he  had  planted  two  slender  slips 
of  American  elm ; “ and  ‘they  grew,  and  they  grew,”  like 
the  roses  in  the  ballad.  They  were  enormous  trees 
when  I was  a very  small  child ; and  the  great  arched 
roots  as  they  stretched  away  from  the  stem  made  beauti- 
ful individual  baby  houses,  where  my  doll  could  reign 
alone,  and  hardly  be  called  a neighbour  to  my  cousin’s 
doll  in  the  next  division.  One  of  the  trees  was  of  the 
more  erect  type  of  elms;  the  other  “wept”  till  its  long 
branches  almost  swept  the  ground.  There  the  orioles 
swung  their  nests ; and  there  we  too  had  a swing ; and 
flew  back  and  forth  through  the  air  at  a rate — and  to  a 
height — that  it  almost  makes  me  catch  my  breath  now 
to  think  of.  The  sheep  bleated  softly  on  the  east 
hill;  the  brook  tinkled  along  through  the  meadow; 
and 


Feelings  were  young, 

And  the  world  was  new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden 
Unfolding  to  view. 


Past  Generations 


5 


The  stage  drivers  named  the  old  dwelling:  “The 
house  with  the  trees.” 

As  I remember  my  grandfather,  he  had  the  Washing- 
ton cut  of  face  and  figure ; with  pink  cheeks,  and  hair 
white  as  the  snow  and  thick  almost  like  fur.  It  was 
my  delight  to  rub  my  little  hands  over  and  through  it ; 
and  he  would  laugh  round  at  me  with  his  wonderful 
blue  eyes.  Not  the  gray-blue  which  is  so  common; 
but  like  bits  of  the  very  sky  for  colour,  and  calmness, 
and  strength.  I have  heard  that  he  had  been  “strik- 
ingly handsome,” — he  was  always  that  to  me. 

Long  after  youth  was  past,  it  was  his  habit  to  rise  at 
three  o’clock,  and  go  perhaps  a quarter  of  a mile  for  his 
shower  bath ; where  among  trees  and  rocks  the  lovely 
brook  came  pitching  down  a ten  feet  fall,  and  then 
sung  itself  away  into  the  pasture.  Sometimes  of 
course  there  was  ice  to  break,  but  that  made  no  differ- 
ence to  my  grandfather.  Then  (at  least  when  working 
days  were  over)  he  went  home,  lighted  his  wood  fire,  and 
in  the  dancing  light  mused  and  saw  visions,  till  the 
rest  of  the  world  woke  up.  Visions? — Ah,  how 

many ! Of  days  when  strong  men  wept  at  the  hearing 
of  “Hail  Columbia,’’ — when  the  alert  young  Continen- 
tals watched  the  Tory  housewife  fill  her  outdoor 
moveable  oven;  saw  the  pork  and  beans  go  in,  the 
bread,  pies,  cake,  and  biscuits*  and  then  while  she 
watched  the  clock  within  doors,  they  reckoned  the  time 
without ; and  just  before  the  critical  minute,  swooped 
down  upon  the  prize,  and  seizing  the  oven  with  its 
rich  freight  bore  it  swiftly  away  to  cover. 

Or  perhaps  he  saw  again  the  panther’s  eyes,  glaring 
at  him  as  he  journeyed  through  Schoharie  Co.  More 
often  still  the  faces  so  long  loved  and  missed  on  earth, 
and  now  awaiting  him  on  the  other  shore.  For  among 


6 


Susan  Warner 


our  happy  kindred,  doubts  of  the  life  to  come,  of  the 
sure  meeting  and  recognition  there,  found  no  place. 

A passionate  love  of  home  and  all  at  home  character- 
ised both  my  father  and  grandfather.  Away  at  Albany, 
amid  all  the  gay  doings  of  the  Capital  in  assembly  time  ; 
my  grandfather’s  heart  turned  longingly  to  the  simple 
Canaan  home.  The  hills,  the  woods,  the  dear  home 
names  and  faces,  never  take  the  second  place  in  his 
letters ; the  old  brown  half-sheets  of  foolscap  are  sweet 
with  the  unseen  lavender  of  faithful  love. 

“My  dear  partner  and  parts  of  myself,’’ — so  begins 
one  of  the  Albany  letters  of  1805:  his  first  year  there, 
apparently,  for  he  says  further  on:  “I  shan’t  attempt 
to  point  out  any  prominent  traits  of  my  legislative 
patriotism  or  enterprise.  I have  learned  however 
to  say  aye  and  no  pretty  correctly!” 

“How  is  the  health  of  my  to  me  most  dear  family? 
Oh!  the  little  birds,  I long  to  see  them.  Methinks  I 
hear  the  little  prattler  lisping  out  ‘pah-pa-pa-pa.’  ” 

The  letter  ends  with  this  inscription:  “To  the 
united  family  of  Father  Jason,  in  the  promised  land.” 
Then  to  the  two  oldest  boys: 

“Tommy,  if  you  and  Harry  can  come  up  next  week 
and  stay  two  or  three  days,  I ’ll  go  home  with  you. 
Mr.  Van  Ness  says  you  must  bring  your  violins,  or  never 
see  him  again.” 

Both  of  the  brothers  were  very  musical.  When  a very 
small  fellow,  my  father  had  a way  of  drumming  out 
tunes  from  the  barn  wall  with  his  little  fists,  which 
was  thought  (by  the  parents)  fine!  One  day,  my 
grandfather  bade  him  prove  his  skill  before  some 
visitors.  The  child,  shy  and  uncomfortable,  said  “No,” 
in  every  way  he  could.  But  my  grandfather’s  “Yes” 
was  stronger,  and  my  father  obeyed.  But  he  never 


Past  Generations 


7 


forgot  how  he  stood  by  the  old  barn,  drumming  out 
his  tune,  with  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 
And  my  grandfather  promised  himself  that  he  would 
never  again  force  a child  of  his  to  “shew  off.”  I wish 
I were  sure  about  the  tune;  it  seems  to  me  it  was 
“Yankee  Doodle.” 

For  the  War  was  but  just  over,  then ; and  names  and 
tunes  were  fresh  and  precious,  with  the  great  Comman- 
der seated  in  his  chair  as  “first  in  peace.”  It  is  a 
token  of  his  place  in  men’s  hearts  as  well,  that  in  later 
letters,  whenever  my  grandfather  speaks  of  his  third 
son,  he  always  calls  him  in  full, — “George  Washing- 
ton,”— never  simply  “George.” 

“How  are  all  our  young  brood? — Oh  the  lovely  few 
yet  remaining  to  our  care,  how  I long  to  see  them : this 
is  the  greatest  length  of  time  we  have  ever  been 
separated  from  each  other. 

“Tell  George  Washington  to  pay  strict  attention  to 
the  bam,  calves,  & c.  Kiss  the  little  fellow  over  and 
over  again  for  ‘pa-pa-pa.  ’ ” 

In  these  days,  when  continents  are  trembling,  and 
the  world  seems  all  ablaze,  there  is  something  per- 
fectly ludicrous  in  a teapot  tempest  like  the  following: 
“ Albany,  March , 1805. 

“I  have  been  well  in  health,  but  for  three  or  four 
days  have  been  perplexed  in  mind  about  our  mode  or 
manner  of  doing  business  in  the  Legislature;  perhaps 
the  greatest  fermentation  agitates  the  minds  of  the 
members,  that  was  ever  discovered  on  any  occasion. 
What  will  be  the  issue,  we  know  not.  Three  days  we 
have  spent  on  the  business  of  the  Merchants’  Bank; 
have  not  taken  the  question  on  the  bill  yet.  This  day 
we  renew  the  business — how  far  we  will  proceed  I 
know  not.  I shall  not  be  disappointed  when  I hear  that 


8 


Susan  Warner 


the  most  serious  quarrels  are  taking  place  between  some 
of  the  members  out  of  doors:  however  hope  it  will 
subside  without  losing  life  or  limb.  You  need  not 
be  frightened  about  your  husband — he  stands  aloof 
from  the  tempest ; though  to  be  sure  he  will  not  leave 
his  post.” 

(The  world  has  moved  a little.  Now,  the  contending 
members  lock  arms  and  go  peacefully  off  to  dinner, 
instead  of  ordering  coffee  and  pistols  for  breakfast.) 

“What  are  you  all  doing?  And  how  do  you  do?” — 
So  the  exile  goes  on.  “And  ’tis  long  since  I heard.  I 
sometimes  take  up  the  first  letters  you  wrote  me,  and 
read  till  my  eyes  sweat.  I then  lock  them  up  and  think 
about  home.  How  are  my  little  dear  girls,  and  my 
little  dear  fellow?  I want  to  kiss  them.” 

In  another  letter  from  Albany : — 

‘ ‘ I shall  be  home  once  more  before  I get  my  discharge 
— perhaps  next  week — when  I will  tell  you  all  things. 
— Now  I tell  you,  I love  you  all  from  the  oldest  to 
the  youngest,  individually  and  severally,  separately 
and  conjunctively,  collectively  and  personally — and 
confoundedly — and  will  come  to  see  you  as  quick  as 
I can.” 

He  had  in  all  twelve  children ; but  only  six  grew  up  to 
man’s  estate. 

The  mother  of  this  flock  of  “troublesome  comforts” 
was  the  daughter  of  Col.  Wm.  Bradford  Whiting: 
Abigail  Whiting;  addressed  on  these  old  letters  as 
“Mrs.  Nabby  Warner” — the  old  nickname  I suppose; 
and  so  her  own  letters  are  signed.  Brought  up  in  the 
sweetest,  soundest  atmosphere  of  faith  and  practice, 
her  own  life  was  shining  with  the  light  before  which 
privations  and  labours  and  even  sorrow,  fall  back  and 
know  their  place.  As  a boy,  as  a young  man,  my  father 


Mrs.  Colonel  Whiting,  Great-Grandmother  of  Miss  Warner 
From  an  Oil  Painting 


tv/' 


library 

OF  TH( 

;>(  ILL'WS 


Past  Generations 


9 


used  to  wonder  to  himself  if  he  could  possibly  live  if 
his  mother  were  to  die.  My  Aunt  Fanny  remembered, 
when  she — too  young  to  be  any  restraint — followed  the 
mother  about,  from  kitchen  to  dairy,  from  dairy  to 
garden;  how  often  the  eyes  were  lifted,  and  the  lips 
moved  in  silent  prayer.  And  when  in  1810,  the  sorrow 
came,  and  the  brothers  were  sent  for  from  College, 
she — little  tender  child! — crept  under  the  bed  to  its 
furthest  comer,  that  she  might  not  see  the  boys  when 
they  first  came  home. 

Colonel  Whiting’s  household  was  noted  for  many 
fine  things;  and  one  fair  trait  was  the  adopting  of 
homeless  girls:  teaching,  comforting,  fitting  them  for 
life  work.  I wish  I knew  just  how  many  my  great 
grandmother  reared  and  fostered  with  her  own  big 
handful  of  sons  and  daughters;  but  the  name  of  one 
is  so  well  known  to  the  Christian  world  that  I may 
mention  it;  Phoebe  Hinsdale — afterwards  Mrs.  Phoebe 
H.  Brown  of  Massachusetts,  who  wrote: 

I love  to  steal  awhile  away 
From  little  ones  and  care, 

And  spend  the  hour  of  setting  day 
In  humble,  grateful  prayer. 


CHAPTER  II 


INHERITANCE  OF  WORK 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  the  difficulties  through  which 
my  father  fought  his  way  to  Union  College.  The  re- 
solve to  go,  came  suddenly,  when  he  was  a little  over 
fourteen.  Thoughts,  wishes,  longings  had  been  making 
turmoil  in  his  heart,  for  I know  not  how  long,  but 
nothing  like  a plan  had  taken  shape. 

“One  day”  (it  is  my  father’s  own  record)  “as  my 
brother  and  I were  ploughing  upon  a fallow  near  a mile 
distant  from  home,  the  weather  being  very  sultry  and 
requiring  us  frequently  to  stop  in  the  furrow  and  give 
our  teams  a respite,  he  upon  an  occasion  of  this  kind 
came  to  me,  and  we  sat  down  together  upon  the  beam 
of  my  plough.  The  place  we  occupied  was  romantic, 
befitting  well  the  conference  which  ensued.  It  was  an 
elevated  point  of  land,  facing  to  the  north,  and  over- 
looking a wild  diversified  champaign  of  many  thousand 
acres,  defined  on  all  sides  by  a mountainous  horizon. 
I shall  never  forget  the  spot  nor  the  hour.  The  sun  had 
gone  far  down  his  western  way;  his  beam  was  the 
smile  of  majesty  appeased;  and  it  shed  at  once  its 
beauty  and  its  dignity  on  all  the  scene. 

“We  that  beheld  were  brothers.  There  was  a union 
of  thought  and  a sympathy  of  feeling  between  us. 
Our  minds  took  up  their  journey  of  meditation  together. 
We  were  unacquainted  with  the  world ; but  we  were  sure 
there  was  a world  which  it  might  be  advantageous  to 


IO 


Inheritance  of  Work 


1 1 

know ; and  we  pined,  like  the  fabulous  prince  of  Abys- 
sinia, under  the  idea  that  we  were  imprisoned  by  the 
hills  that  surrounded  us. 

“Our  conversation  was  upon  the  mysterious  ways  of 
Providence  concerning  us,  and  set  in  careful  contrast 
what  we  were , and  what  we  wished  to  be.  The  extent 
of  our  opportunities  had  been  an  occasional  winter 
school,  under  the  guidance  of  such  instructors  as  the 
woods  produced  and  as  the  woods  could  adequately 
pay. 

“To  read  and  to  write  with  moderate  decency,  was 
all  the  learning  we  could  boast.  It  would  not  do ; we 
sighed  over  our  lot ; and  looked,  I do  not  know  but  I may 
say,  through  tears,  for  prospects  which  as  yet  we  were 
unable  to  discern. 

“Suddenly,  the  difficulty  ceased.  A gleam  of  light 
fell,  as  it  were  from  heaven,  upon  the  vision  of  the  soul. 
It  pleased  God  to  impart  to  us  the  secret  by  which  all 
considerable  improvements  are  achieved — he  taught 
us  to  resolve.  A difficult,  an  almost  awful  lesson  in 
our  circumstances,  but  probably  the  only  help  for 
them.  We  did  not  hesitate.  In  spite  of  a myriad  of 
obstacles  and  discouragements,  we  did  resolve.  On 
what?  A total  change  of  purpose  and  of  life.  In 
what  direction  ? From  the  track  of  the  plough  to  the 
more  luminous,  if  not  more  enviable,  path  of  literature 
and  of  reputation.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  nothing 
less  than  this.  My  brother  first  suggested  the  design 
and  then  frankly  avowed  it  as  his  own.  The  thought 
surprised  and  amazed  me ; and  I can  now  feel  the  pang, 
as  of  lightning,  that  struck  my  heart,  from  the  momen- 
tary clash  of  hope  and  despair.  I had  never  yet 
presumed  nor  dared,  to  look  so  high.  And  when  for  the 
first  time,  I lifted  my  eye  along  the  steep  and  difficult 


12 


Susan  Warner 


acclivity  of  the  project,  my  spirit  involuntarily  sunk 
before  it  could  ascend.  It  sunk,  however,  only  to  rise 
with  a rebound.  My  brother’s  purpose  was  soon  mine. 
We  had  heard  that  there  were  Colleges  where  literary 
adventurers  convened,  and  that  these  were  the  best 
places  of  education  in  the  country.  Our  first  attention 
fell  upon  them.  Ignorant  as  we  were,  and  having 
scarcely  a distinct  notion  of  anything  involved  in  the 
scheme  we  were  plotting,  we  yet  determined  each  for 
himself,  with  one  accord,  that  at  least  the  ordinary 
course  of  liberal  learning  must  and  should  be  sooner  or 
later  accomplished.  Nor  did  that  resolution  ever  after- 
wards desert  either  of  us,  to  my  knowledge,  for  a single 
moment.” 

But  the  fight  was  sharp  and  also  prolonged.  At 
fourteen,  one  has  not  usually  great  resources,  and  what 
small  help  the  home  funds  could  furnish,  went  first  by 
right  to  the  older  boy.  My  father  was  placed  in  a pub- 
lishing house  in  Albany,  instead  of  at  school,  and  in 
patient  endurance  plodded  on  there,  a very  homesick 
boy  indeed.  He  wrote  home: 

“ March  30,  1803.  Some  strive  for  sumptuousness, 
some  for  riches,  some  for  power,  and  I for  peace  of 
mind.  Some  strive  for  knowledge — this  is  a noble  pur- 
suit. I would  I was  in  a situation  to  follow  the  chase. 
By  this  you  will  guess  my  mind  in  part : one  day  I hope 
the  sun  will  shine  on  me ! I have  no  fears ; hope  keeps 
my  heart  whole  yet.  I have  not  much  that  will  be 
interesting  to  tell  you,  for  I am  surrounded  by  stran- 
gers; but  you,  my  dear  parents,  have  enough  to  fill 
our  store  to  tell  me,  which  would  gratify  my  cravings 
much.  When  I left  you,  I felt  I can ’t  tell  how.  I was 
sick  all  day. 

“When  I have  been  here  long  enough  to  know,  I will 


Inheritance  of  Work 


13 


tell  you  what  I think  of  my  situation.  I hope  my  mind 
or  situation  will  change  before  that  time.” 

Then  later: — 

‘ ‘ Papa,  I never  shall  be  pleased  unless  I can  gain  in 
something ; unless  I can  improve  in  something,  I think 
(now)  I shall  be  unhappy.  I know  very  well  I am 
young,  and  that  my  mind  is  not  matured,  and  that 
I want  advice;  and  hence  I shall  surely  follow  the 
experienced  advice  of  a Father,  rather  than  my  own. 
You  say  Tommy  will  go  the  1st  of  May — if  Pa  should 
ever  think  proper  to  send  me,  surely  T.  is  oldest  and 
ought  to  go  first.  Now  as  it  respects  my  situation,  I 
have  tried  to  reconcile  myself  to  it,  but  to  no  purpose. 
I cannot  get  any  time  to  study ; and  will  it  do  ? Shall  I 
gain,  or  shall  I lose?” 

“ April  14.  Papa,  I am  resolved  to  take  your  good 
advice  (for  it  cannot  be  otherwise)  and  continue  here 
till  I shall  know  better  what  to  do.  Yes!  oh!  I 
will  follow  the  voice  which  has  led  me  from  my 
cradle.” 

There  came  in  answer  loving  words  from  home, 
bidding  the  homesick  boy  follow  his  longings  and  come 
back.  How  homesick  he  was  comes  out  in  a letter  to 
his  brother,  from  Albany. 

“Who  supposed,”  he  writes,  “two  years  ago,  that 
you  and  I would  ever  while  here  below  be  deprived 
of  each  other’s  company  as  long  as  we  have  now? 

“Never  before  did  I think  I should  weep  at  the  sight 
of  a long  absent  friend ; many  times  have  I laughed  at 
people  for  sighing  on  such  an  occasion ; but  I think 
I ’ll  never  do  it  more.  Oh  my  brother,  you  know  and 
I know  that  when  you  were  here,  our  tears  did  blend 
together;  the  same  sentiment  actuated  both.  I am 
in  a wilderness ; I see  nought  but  strangers ; but  the 


14 


Susan  Warner 


present  pain  is,  I am  far  from  you  all,  yea  my  heart 
also,  for  indeed  it  is  among  you.” 

The  letter  ends : 

“Believe  me  your  affectionate  brother,  who  will  do 
all  he  can  for  you  and  all  the  rest. 

Hen.” 

It  was  a big  promise  for  a boy  of  sixteen,  but  it  had 
a noble  life-long  redemption. 

No  hope  was  held  out  of  much  study  at  home. 

“You  will  no  doubt  reflect  wisely,”  my  grandfather 
wrote,  “perhaps  it  will  not  be  convenient  to  send  you  to 
school  until  next  fall.  Your  brother  Thomas  will 
probably  go  the  first  of  next  month. 

“True  enough,  Harry,  I shall  be  well  pleased  to  have 
your  assistance  this  summer,  if  your  health  permits; 
should  however  have  consented  to  your  stay,  had  you 
been  pleased  with  your  prospects.  It  may  be  for  the 
good  of  the  whole  for  you  to  assume  the  attitude  of  a 
farmer  for  the  present.” 

The  mother  adds : 

“My  dear  child,  it  is  almost  breakfast  time,  shall  say 
but  a few  words  to  you  at  this  time,  as  we  expect  you 
will  return  with  your  uncle. 

“Yes,  Henry,  come  home,  if  it  is  most  agreeable  to 
you,  and  be  the  comfort  and  support  of  your  parents 
and  friends.” 

But  boys  and  girls  are  not  the  ones  that  do  all 
the  thinking ; and  before  the  two  sons  had  made  known 
their  plan,  father  and  mother  had  gone  all  over  the 
ground,  studying,  consulting,  and  only  kept  silence, 
because  of  the  exceeding  difficulties  in  the  way,  which 
even  the  boys  but  faintly  knew. 

“Now,  however,  the  matter  was  in  open  air,  beyond 
their  reach,  and  it  was  soon  resolved  and  settled  that 


Inheritance  of  Work 


15 


a general  and  vigorous  effort  should  be  made  to  prepare 
one  of  us  (my  brother  of  course,  as  being  the  elder) 
for  a learned  profession. 

“ It  was  in  the  fall  of  1802  that  he  was  sent  to  the 
Academy  as  it  was  called,  a decent  grammar  school  in 
the  town  of  Lenox,  Mass.  I remained  at  home,  and  at 
work  as  usual  upon  the  homestead,  till  the  next  autumn, 
when  leave  was  given  me  to  follow  him. 

“Thus  was  my  chosen  enterprise  begun.  Nor  did 
I delay  a moment  to  address  myself  with  all  diligence 
to  the  duties  it  involved.  My  father,  as  I had  reason  to 
suppose,  had  expected  that  I was  to  be  chiefly  conver- 
sant while  at  Lenox,  with  the  usual  topics  of  rustic 
education ; but  right  or  wrong,  I disappointed  him.  My 
first  fortnight  was  given  to  the  rudiments  of  Algebra, 
and  during  all  the  remainder  of  my  stay  I read  nothing 
but  Latin.  Unfortunately,  that  remainder  was  only 
six  weeks.  I ran  hastily  over  Beza’s  St.  John  and 
nearly  two  books  of  the  Iliad,  and  then  my  father  came 
for  me,  I remember  not  why,  and  took  me  home  with 
him  to  return  no  more.  And  from  that  time  I received 
no  further  instruction  in  my  studies,  for  a day  or  an 
hour,  until  it  was  afforded  me  in  College.” 

Two  chequered  years  went  by.  One  summer  and 
fall  the  brothers  spent  with  an  uncle  at  Wethersfield, 
to  “sequester  themselves”  for  their  favourite  pursuits. 
But  boys  were  boys,  then  as  now,  and  the  ease  of  living 
and  the  many  “social  attractions,”  drew  them  aside 
from  study : It  was  “a  season  which  while  it  abounded 

with  flowers  passed  off  without  any  substantial  fruit- 
age.” 

Then  my  father  came  home  to  make  himself  a re- 
cluse; “and  the  winter  left  behind  it  some  consoling 
traces.” 


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Susan  Warner 


For  the  next  year  he  taught  school — to  his  great 
disgust,  but  the  spring  of  1806  brought  him  back  to  the 
old  hopeless  work  upon  the  farm.  “Necessity  gave 
the  law,  and  there  was  no  alternative.  My  studies  were 
now  almost  suspended.’’ 

“The  noonspell  and  such  an  evening  as  in  the  short 
nights  of  summer,  a weary  farm-faring  man  could 
prudently  deny  to  sleep,” — with  here  and  there  “a  few 
stolen  moments,”  were  all  the  leisure  he  had. 

“The  time  of  course  went  heavily;  I became  silent 
and  melancholy ; my  hopes  were  too  dear  to  be  resigned 
with  composure ; tears  often  gushed  upon  the  furrows  I 
turned  up;  my  prospects  appeared  to  be  fading;  the 
cloud  thickened  upon  my  eye;  ‘nox  incubat  atra.’ 

“Strange  to  tell,  it  was  in  the  fall  of  this  year  of 
darkness  and  gloom  that  I went  to  College.  How  it 
came  to  pass  I know  not.  Wonder  suffuses  my  recol- 
lection of  the  fact,  when  I consider  that  it  must  have 
been  a thing  of  mere  conjecture,  how  I was  to  be  sup- 
ported there.  I,  it  is  certain,  was  intent  upon  going, 
and  thought  of  nothing  else.  My  dear  father  and 
mother,  as  I believe,  commended  me  to  Heaven,  and 
hoped  that  I should  be  taken  care  of  by  Him  who  is 
abundant  in  goodness ; and  He,  the  Benefactor  of  the 
poor  who  are  content  to  honour  Him,  was  pleased  to 
recognise  the  trust.  So  it  must  have  been  and  to  His 
name  shall  be  the  glory.” 


Henry  W.  Warner 

From  a Miniature 


urtiK*  * 

OF  THE 

|}l!iVERSITv  OF  ILL.  HO  S 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  FATHER 

And  so  the  end  was  gained  and  the  dauntless 
younger  boy  entered  college  with  his  brother,  not  only 
where  but  when. 

The  old  account,  after  a very  unflattered  picture  of 
Schenectady  as  it  was  in  those  early  days,  goes  on: 

“The  College  certainly  afforded  a decided  contrast 
to  the  state  and  character  of  surrounding  objects.  It 
stood  quite  in  the  southeasterly  suburbs  of  the  city, 
where  its  foundations  had  been  then  recently  redeemed 
from  mud  and  mire.  I approached  the  spot  for  the  first 
time,  not  without  emotion.  It  was  a scene  I had  often 
sighed  to  behold.  The  main  edifice  was  a fine  new 
building  of  freestone,  and  there  was  another  of  brick, 
which  was  truly  respectable.  The  grounds,  too, 
though  small  in  extent,  were  neatly  laid  out  and  pleas- 
ant, and  the  whole  establishment  looked  like  a place  of 
refuge  from  the  nameless  disgusts  that  swarmed  in  its 
vicinity. 

‘ ‘ It  was  in  the  evening  of  the  day  that  I made  good 
my  arrival  at  this  retreat.  My  father  and  my  brother 
Thomas  were  with  me.  All  of  us  fatigued  with  the 
dust  of  an  irksome  journey  over  a bad  road  in  an 
execrable  wagon.  I believe  it  was  in  September. 
Dr.  Nott  was  then  two  or  three  years  old  in  the  presi- 
dency. My  father  had  seen  him  before;  and  as  our 

2 17 


i8 


Susan  Warner 


first  business  lay  with  him,  we  proceeded  by  the  help  of 
a guide  directly  to  his  hall.” 

In  these  days,  snap  shots  are  a lawless  nuisance, — 
but  0 if  there  had  been  one  taken  then ! 

‘‘The  work  was  soon  done.  He  received  us  very 
well;  heard  our  story  with  attention,  asked  a few 
simple  questions  which  were  answered  with  like  sim- 
plicity, and  in  the  end  accorded  all  our  desire.  I be- 
came at  once  a probationary  Sophomore  for  the  current 
session,  with  leave  to  await  an  examination  for  standing 
at  the  end  of  term.  My  brother  was  admitted  Junior 
on  the  same  footing.  Subsequent  trial  brought  us  no 
reverse,  but  on  the  contrary  confirmed  alike  our  stand- 
ing and  our  hopes.” 

One  more  extract  I must  give,  for  it  shews  my 
father’s  deep  thoroughness  of  thought  and  purpose. 

“Colleges,  especially  in  our  country,  are  little  more 
than  starting  places  of  education.  Scholars  may  be 
bom  but  cannot  hope  to  be  fully  bred  there.  The  time 
allotted  is  too  short,  and  the  preparation  previously 
required  of  the  pupil  too  small.  It  were  a work  be- 
yond the  power  of  angels.  Let  us  be  reasonable. 
The  mind  must  achieve  its  own  acquisitions  in  this 
world,  and  achieve  them,  too,  under  the  burden  of  the 
general  curse,  with  labour  and  with  pain.  And  if, 
during  the  lapse  of  an  ordinary  abode  at  the  University, 
it  can  be  made  to  compass  the  great  first  object  of 
learning  how  to  learn , and  be  rendered  at  the  same  time 
habitually  sensitive  to  those  generous  motives  which 
alone  have  virtue  to  sustain  it  in  the  long  and  difficult 
and  agonizing  toil  of  improvement;  nothing  further 
ought  to  be  demanded ; tuition  has  fulfilled  its  office ; 
discipline  has  attained  its  end,  and  every  rational 
expectation  has  been  realised.” 


The  Father 


19 


In  his  Junior  year,  my  father  was  put  in  charge  of  the 
Greek  class,  and  (with  his  own  study  hours  cut  down 
one  third)  carried  it  further  than  any  tutor  had  ever 
done,  in  the  same  length  of  time. 

“Have  you  any  more  sons?”  wrote  President  Nott 
to  my  grandfather.  “ If  you  have,  send  them  on!” — 

Thinking  of  it,  I wonder  if  this  early  experience  gave 
a certain  sweet  touch  to  my  father’s  life-long  delight  in 
Greek.  Look  in  his  coat  pocket  when  he  was  going  to 
steamboat  or  train,  and  you  would  commonly  find  some 
little  old  leather-bound  Greek  volume,  bestowed  there 
for  light  reading  on  the  way. 

He  was  a student  through  and  through ; with  always 
piles  of  notebooks,  and  shorthand  jottings  in  every 
book  he  read.  In  the  busiest  years  of  his  law  practice, 
his  chief  recreation  was  to  handle  these. 

The  old  College  letters,  so  rough  and  brown,  must 
have  brought  wonderful  cheer  to  the  hearts  at  home. 
In  one  of  the  first  he  says : 

“I  suppose  you  would  be  glad  to  know  something 
about  our  situation.  It  is,  my  dear  parents,  as  pleas- 
ant as  we  could  rationally  expect  it  to  be,  while  you 
are  among  the  hills  of  Canaan  and  we  on  the  banks  of 
the  Mohawk.  We  have,  indeed,  to  use  the  language  of 
poetry — 

‘ Strict  statutes  and  most  biting  laws.  ’ 

“But  although,  as  the  poet  adds,  ‘They  are  the 
needful  bits  and  curbs  of  headstrong  steeds,  ’ yet  those 
that  are  not  headstrong  feel  no  disagreeable  constraint 
from  them.  We  are  obliged  to  rise  as  early  as  six 
o’clock  in  the  morning  and  to  be  in  bed  by  eleven  in  the 
evening.  Our  recitations  (which  are  three  in  a day), 
the  times  of  attending  prayers  and  of  eating  our  vie- 


20 


Susan  Warner 


tuals,  and,  I had  almost  said,  our  diet  itself,  are  about 
as  uniform  as  the  annual  revolutions  of  the  earth. 
Our  President,  professors  and  tutors  are  all  young  men, 
but  eminently  capable  to  teach,  and  full  of  ambition. 
In  a word,  everything  is  much  as  it  should  be,  both  for 
the  health  and  the  progress  of  the  students.  The  water 
has  lost  its  nauseous  taste ; we  have  an  excellent  room, 
good  health,  many  friends,  and  but  for  home,  we 
should  be — miserable.  O home ! to  see  thee  were  man- 
na to  my  hungry  soul.  What ! such  an  exclamation  in 
four  weeks  time  ? Hush,  hush,  my  frantic  imagination ! 
But  spite  of  all,  imagination  rejoins,  ‘Methinks  I ’d 
journey  through  an  Israeli tish  wilderness  to  visit  the 
land  of  my  forefathers,  even  the  promised  Canaan.’ 

“My  dear  parents,  God  be  for  you,  and  none  shall 
prevail  against  you.  I hope  he  will  yet  bring  us 
together  again  in  this  world.  To  George  and  the  little 
— the  dear  little  ones — what  shall  I say?  I will 
commend  them  to  the  Friend  and  Keeper  of  good 
children. 

“Let  us  hear  from  you  often*  your  cares  and  your 
joys,  tell  us  all.” 

“Nov.  27.”  (In  excuse  for  not  writing.)  “One  third  of 
my  study  hours  is  devoted  to  the  instruction  of  others, 
my  class  are  pressing  rapidly  forward,  some  spurred  on 
by  ambition,  the  rest  by  the  bayonet  of  authority; 
and  as  it  happens,  I myself  have  a spirit  in  me  that 
likes  not  the  humiliation  of  disadvantageous  compari- 
son. Think  of  these  things,  and  then  judge  ye,  where 
are  my  intervals  of  leisure  ? I am  in  perpetual  engage- 
ments. I have  not  time  for  exercise  of  body.  I sit  up 
late  and  rise  early.  Thanks  to  ‘the  sw^eet  Heaven,* 
my  health  is  spared,  my  sleep  is  sound ; my  blood  still 
runs  warm,  copious  and  brisk;  my  constitution  is 


The  Father 


21 


strong,  my  limbs  are  not  broken  by  casualties ; my  arm 
is  full  of  bone  and  muscle.  Thanks  to  the  ‘sweet 
Heaven,’  that  I have  not  forgotten  the  land  that  gave 
me  birth!” 

“Friday,  the  15th  day  of  Jan.  next  will  close  the  pres- 
ent College  term.  ‘Flow  on,  lovely  Dec.,’  said  I,  in 
spite  of  my  reason.  And  pray,  how  could  I help  it? 
For  already,  through  the  telescope  of  my  imagination, 
I thought  I could  discern  just  round  the  snowy 
promontory  of  December,  the  green  meadows  of  love.” 

Work  went  on  rather  fiercely.  In  March  1808,  he 
writes : 

“I  have  scarcely  straightened  my  enormous  length 
since  I left  you.  Alas,  alas ! what  pity  if  I should  grow 
double!”  [He  stood  6 feet  2§  inches  in  his  stockings.] 

But  work  was  always  more  genial  to  him  than  play. 

“ April  10 , 1808.”  (from  Albany)  “Great  folks 
and  little  folks  are  gabbling  about  me  while  I write. 
Sweet  solitude,  I love  thee.  Whether  it  be  for  better 
or  for  worse  I know  not ; but  so  it  is,  my  nature  is  at 
war  with  these  city  throngs.  Whatever  be  their  com- 
position, the  Doctors  and  Generals  are  ingredients.  I 
like  them  not. — We  were  last  night  at  the  Patroon’s ; 
heard  his  wife  sing  and  play  on  the  harpsichord.  She 
performed  exceeding  well,  and  sings  better.  They 
have  as  beautiful  a seat  as  Adam  and  Eve  had  in  Para- 
dise. What  of  that?  Nothing,  only  they  have  it. 
A day  or  two,  and  it  is  another’s.  Well,  every  dog 
has  his  day.  I would  have  been  glad  to  enjoy  the  hours 
I spent  there,  in  the  stupendous  edifice  which  is  my 
home .” 

11  Union  College , May  i8oq. 

‘ ‘ I have  lost  some  flesh  by  necessary  and  excessive 
assiduity  in  writing,  but  am  in  very  good  health.  It 


22 


Susan  Warner 


would  be  no  small  disappointment  to  the  Faculty  and  to 
many  of  the  students,  if  I should  not  continue  so  till 
Commencement.  So  that  you  may  well  imagine  I have 
prayers  not  a few  for  my  welfare,  whether  they  are  put 
up  by  righteous  men  or  not.  The  exercises  of  Com- 
mencement Eve  and  of  the  day  following  will  be  at 
least  two  thirds  of  them  from  my  pen.  I have  a most 
painful  responsibility.  How  I shall  satisfy  it,  Heaven 
knows.  I shall  finish  the  tragedy  next  week.  Cumber- 
land, the  most  illustrious  of  modern  dramatic  writers, 
was  three  months  composing  a comedy,  and  judges  that 
time  to  be  little  enough.  I shall  have  executed  a trag- 
edy in  five  weeks.  Perhaps  it  will  be  executed  in  a 
different  sense,  at  its  exhibition.  I am  content.  My 
labours  have  so  many  branches  and  all  so  considerable, 
I am  afraid  I shall  be  unable  to  do  justice  to  myself 
in  any  of  them,  and  lose  the  little  reputation  I have 
already  gained.  I leave  the  event.” 

I have  heard,  I think,  that  this  effort  was  a great 
success.  But  the  old  paper-bound  MS.  time-stained 
and  faded,  lies  silent  before  me,  and  gives  no  hint. 


Mrs.  H.  W.  Warner 

From  a Miniature 


UWAKV 


in  'VCRS 


OF  THE 

!TV  Of 


'U  ■■,’0:3 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  MOTHER 

A young  bachelor,  native  of  Great  Britain,  told  it  of 
himself  that  he  “prayed  for  his  wife  every  day”;  for 
(logically)  if  he  was  to  have  one  at  all,  she  must  even 
then  be  in  the  world,  and  “it  would  do  no  harm  to  pray 
for  her.” 

But  I wonder  how  he  pictured  to  himself  her  life 
and  circumstances,  so  as  to  pray  with  any  sense  of 
reality,  and  not  simply  into  space.  Lives  are  often  so 
very  far  apart,  until  they  touch. 

Certainly  nothing  could  have  been  more  unlike  my 
father’s  life  in  those  early  days,  with  its  toil,  its  hard- 
ships, and  its  privations,  than  that  other  young  life 
which  was  soon  to  be  one  with  his.  For  the  sweet 
girl,  nature  opened  out  in  the  world’s  full  sunshine, 
knowing  no  care. 

She  was  some  half  dozen  years  younger  than  my 
father;  went  to  school,  I believe,  but  I know  not 
where  nor  for  how  long ; and  seems  then  to  have  passed 
her  girl -life  and  early  womanhood  between  summer 
visits  to  Newport  and  Providence  (her  mother’s  native 
town)  and  the  family  home  at  Jamaica  or  in  New  York. 

Her  father  had  died  when  she  was  very  young,  and 
her  mother  had  married  again.  Means  were  abundant, 
society  came  in  a flood ; and  she  herself  had  a limited 
amount  of  pocket  money  of  her  own.  From  this,  appar- 
ently, she  was  to  supply  herself  with  certain  things, 

23 


24 


Susan  Warner 


leaving  the  more  humdrum  needs  to  some  other 
provider.  At  least,  only  certain  things  are  noted  in  the 
old  girlish  account  book:  shoes,  hats,  gloves,  stockings, 
dresses,  and  books  figure  chiefly. 

It  is  no  dainty  note-book  bound  in  Russia  leather, 
lettered  in  gold,  but  a small  homemade  affair  of  rather 
rough  paper,  homemade  and  homeruled.  Yet  the 
exactness  of  the  lines  and  the  neatness  of  the  entries  are 
a pattern  for  anyone,  or  anyone’s  book.  The  dates 
cover  the  years  from  February  1808  to  December 
1814,  but  a sort  of  midway  entry  marks  the  fly  leaf: 

“ Monday , July  25,  1810.  I weighed  no  lbs.”  (Yet 
she  was  tall.) 

Then  the  notes  run  on,  giving  token  of  gay  doings 
and  a very  easy  life.  Generally  the  prices  compare 
very  favourably  with  those  of  our  own  time. 


“A  pair  of  Morrocco  shoes $2 . 

A pair  of  silk  stockings 2.50 

A scissors  case 6 

A pair  of  long  gloves 50 

A pair  of  short  gloves 30 

Rasselas  Prince  of  Abyssynia 50 

2 pieces  Nankeen 4.25 

2 pair  shoes 2.73 

The  Lay  of  an  Irish  Fop 1 . 

A hat 6. 

A shawl 7. 

A lace  scarf 12. 

A hat  for  spring 4. 

A tortoise  shell  comb 2 . 

A set  of  pearl 

A comb 7 

A pair  of  silk  stockings 4 . 


The  Mother 


25 


A muslin  mantle $2.50 

3 Sonatas 

A pair  of  white  kid  shoes 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 

A paint  box 

A marble  slab 


Green  silk  hat 5 . 

1 yd.  gauze 1.39 

Letter  paper 

Music  stand 

3 \ yds.  muslin 8 . 93 1 

Floss  Cotton 374 


White  kid  gloves 

Hat 

Marmion 

Silver  clasp 


Assembly  dress 25 . 

Sacred  Music 

Piano  tuned  and  mended 874 


Blue  kid  shoes 

Green  Morrocco  shoes 

Carnelian  earrings 

9 yds.  Canton  Crape 

A white  hat 

Gilt  buttons 

Letter  paper  and  quills 

3 yds.  pelisse  cloth 9 . 

Voltaire’s  Charles  Twelfth 

Umbrella 

And  so  it  runs  on.  The  old  books  are  some  of 
them  here  now,  as  are  the  red  scissors  case,  and  some 

1 So  stands  the  entry.  The  reference  may  possibly  be  to  a piece 
of  embroidered  India  muslin. 


26 


Susan  Warner 


of  the  stockings,  and  other  things.  But  what  strikes 
one  most  is  the  number  of  shoes.  In  those  less  than 
seven  years  the  girl  bought  fifty  pair:  green,  red, 
black  Morrocco,  with  kid  of  all  colours, — white,  pink, 
blue,  green,  red,  yellow.  Truly  there  must  have  been 
paper  soles  in  those  days ; for  I do  not  think  she  was  a 
dancer. 

So  much  for  the  setting  of  the  picture ; the  likeness 
itself  is  harder  to  give.  A thoughtful,  earnest  character  ; 
a girl  who  would  speedily  don  her  own  assembly  dress 
and  pink  shoes,  and  then  go  down  stairs  and  read 
till  the  other  girlswere  ready ; a vivid  sparkling  nature, — 
so  I fancy  her ; for  the  comment  upon  her  miniature, 
by  people  who  have  known  her  has  been:  “Yes,  that  is 
her  face — but  why  didn’t  he  put  the  life  in?”  And  a 
self-forgetful,  winning  presence  that  made  her  loved 
by  all — so  the  old  letters  tell. 

“Everyone  is  inquiring  when  I shall  hear  from  Miss 
Anna,”  writes  my  grandmother  to  her  in  New  York. 
“Ann  says  she  no  longer  wishes  to  come  into  the 
parlour,  since  Miss  Anna  is  gone.” 

“You  would,  I am  sure,  be  quite  pleased  to  know  the 
joy  your  letters  diffuse  throughout  the  whole  house. 
When  I told  Nancy  that  I had  a letter  from  you,  she  ex- 
claimed : ‘ O the  dear  soul,  how  does  she  do  ? The  dear 
creature,  I do  miss  her  so  wonderfully , she  don’t  think.’ 
And  the  children  are  wild  with  ‘What  did  Aunt  Anna 
say  about  me?  ’,  and  ‘O  give  my  love  to  her,’  ‘and  Mine,’ 
‘and  Mine,’  ‘and  Mine.’” 

“There  is  a general  rejoicing  through  the  house 
when  I get  a letter.  Nancy  says,  ‘0  the  dear  little 
creature,  I do  want  to  see  her  so.’  ” 

“The  children  cry  out  half  a dozen  times  a day  that 
they  miss  Aunt  Anna  so  they  don ’t  know  what  to  do — 


The  Mother 


27 


and  as  for  Ann,  she  says  it  seems  as  if  every  one  was  out 
of  the  house.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? ” 

There  is  a good  deal  of  kindly  gossip  in  the  old 
letters,  now  and  then;  hardly  that,  either,  as  it  was 
written  to  her  daughter:  but  one  sees  the  sameness 
of  human  nature  at  all  times.  “Sovereigns  die,  and 
sovereignties” — but  humanity  holds  its  own.  The 
admirers  have  their  soubriquets,  and  are  laughed  at, 
gently,  as  now. 

‘ ‘ Who  do  you  think  is  here  at  this  present  moment  ? 
No  less  a personage  than  Stockey.  He  came  this 
morning  while  we  were  at  breakfast,  loaded  with  sugar 
plumbs,  a welcome  visitor  to  Charles  and  the  children.” 

“Mr.  Aspin wall’s  family  have  moved  up.  I forget 
whether  I mentioned  to  you  that  they  had  hired  rapid 
Jack's  place  for  two  years.” 

This  is  to  my  mother  in  Providence.  Then  from  her 
in  turn : 

“I  should  have  my  hands  full,  dear  mother,  if  I were 
to  tell  you  what  everybody  says.  Were  I able  to  comply 
with  your  request,  my  memory  would  deserve  to  be 
classed  among  subjects  which  deserve  wonder  and 
admiration.  In  one  thing,  however,  they  all  join, 
and  that  is  in  affectionate  inquiries  about  you. — 
‘Only  think’ — Slow-go  has  not  been  to  see  me  yet. 
How  mortifying  ! What  a shock  to  my  vanity  ! What 
a lesson  for  me  never  again  to  calculate  upon  the  cer- 
tainty of  any  sublunary  events!  I thought  that  the 
first  person  I should  see  in  Providence  would  be  Slow- 
go,  but  alack  and  alas  he  has  never  honoured  me  with 
a call!!!!!— 

“Have  you  seen  or  heard  of  the  Delafields  or  any 
of  my  beaux? 

‘ ‘ I ask  you  dear  mother  to  send  me  some  of  my  music, 


28 


Susan  Warner 


— the  book  which  James  King  has,  the  one  which 
contains  ‘Sigh  not  for  Love,’  and  the  rest  I leave  to 
your  judgment  to  select.” 

“The  book  that  James  King  had,  the  one  with  ‘Sigh 
not  for  Love,’  the  one  with  ‘O  the  hawthorn  was  blow- 
ing,’ the  one  with  the  music  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
the  Fantasie,  the  Symphony,  and  one  other  book  and  a 
song.”  So  runs  my  grandmother’s  endorsement  on  the 
outside  of  the  letter,  naming  the  music  sent.  I wonder 
if  the  songs  were  much  the  same  as  the  modern 
“O  promise  me”?  The  “Hawthorn”  sounds  a little 
better. 

“ Aug.  8,  1812. 

“My  dear  child. 

“I  have  this  moment  received  yours  of  the  4th  by 
the  stage. 

“And  now  dear  Anna,  let  me  thank  you  for  giving 
me  something  of  a detail;  for  really  I have  been  as 
ignorant  of  what  you  were  about  as  I should  have  been 
had  you  lived  in  the  Moon.  How  stands  your  heart 
with  this  same  fine  gentleman  ? — but  you  are  not  very 
susceptible,  that  is  the  greatest  security  you  can  have. 

“You  would  be  delighted  with  Jamaica  this  summer, 
since  I have  had  the  Drawing  Room  open  only  three 
times;  once  for  Mrs.  Weeks  Newman,  &c,  and  once  for 
Mrs.  David  Codwise,  &c,  and  for  Jack’s  folks — I had 
like  to  have  forgotten  Mrs.  Mottley  Brown  and  the 
girls.  But  that’s  all.” 

“ Aug.  17th.  My  dear  Child. 

“ I do  not  know  but  I ought  to  say,  my  dear  Rhoda, 
too,  for  it  seems  that  she  had  some  agency  in  both  your 
last  letters,  which  I am  sorry  it  is  not  in  my  power  to 
notice  as  fully  as  I wish,  it  being  now  ten  o’clock,  and 
I want  to  send  this  by  the  morning  stage.  I will, 


The  Mother 


29 


however,  just  observe,  that  I was  a little  puzzled  to 
understand  all  those  notes  of  admiration , nor  am  I 
quite  sure  that  I do  understand  them;  but  you  have 
promised  to  explain,  and  with  that  assurance  I must 
rest  satisfied.  There  seems  to  be  more  meant  than 
meets  the  ear.  I will  not  say  that  ‘my  son  Tom’  has 
made  love  to  both  of  you,  but  that  something  like  it 
has  happened  is  very  evident. 

“I  went  to  Rockaway  on  Saturday  and  returned 
yesterday.  Little  Jackey  Rogers  is  there. 

“But  to  return  to  my  ‘son  Tom,’  I fear  Rhoda  has 
lost  her  influence  over  you,  or  that  she  does  not  exert 
it  to  correct  your  faults  as  formerly,  or  she  could  not 
let  you  be  so  rude  as  not  to  pay  due  deference  to  the 
young  gentleman  in  question.  And  I am  sure  it  is  not 
polite , to  say  no  more  of  it,  to  look  another  way  when 
so  fine  a young  man  is  speaking  to  one.  I hope  there- 
fore you  will  mend  your  manners  before  I come,  or  I 
shall  be  shocked  to  a degree.  But  joking  apart,  I hope 
you  do  not  indulge  any  likes  or  dislikes  to  the  injury 
of  any  one’s  feelings.  Dear  Anna,  be  a good  girl  and 
let  mother  love  her  dearly.” 

So  girls  were  girls  (I  have  heard  that  this  was 
eminently  true  of  “Rhoda”)  in  those  old  days,  though 
the  mothers  were  (no  doubt) ! a trifle  antiquated  in 
their  notions.  I cannot  find  the  letter  which  answers 
this ; another  gives  bits  of  description. 

“I  have  made  a most  delightful  acquaintance,  since  I 
have  been  here,  with  a young  man  of  the  name  of 
Tillinghast;  he  is  considered  the  finest  young  man  in 
Providence.  He  is  a Poet,  and  an  Orator,  and  a charm- 
ing companion;  he  converses  extremely  well,  every- 
thing he  says  has  meaning”  (rare!)  “and  is  elegantly 
expressed ; he  has  not  visited  me,  and  I have  met  him 


30 


Susan  Warner 


only  three  or  four  times,  but  he  is  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  young  men  I have  come  across  this  great 
while.  Next  to  him  in  point  of  talents  stands  Dr. 
Machie;  he  is  as  agreeable  as  ever.  Young  Goddard  is 
quite  an  admirer  of  ladies’  society  and  is  a fine  young 
man.  He  wants  a little  polishing,  but  that  is  a trifle. 
John  Francis  has  been  to  see  me  about  two  or  three 
times,  but  I have  always  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  be 
out.  Now  all  this  is  in  compliance  with  T’s  request 
that  I would  write  something  about  the  young  men.” 

So  the  young  life  grew.  Books  of  drawings  and 
paintings  tell  that  the  $2  paint  box  was  put  to  use: 
an  old  daintily  wrought  “sampler”  marks  the  time  in 
which  she  lived.  There  are  piles  of  music — I had  well 
nigh  said  of  all  sorts;  there  are  long  poems  and  prose 
extracts  carefully  written  out.  And  a certain  filmy 
skirt,  with  deep,  deep  floss  embroidery  which  I have,' 
may,  I think,  be  that  very  muslin  next  to  the  note  of 
which  is  written  ‘ ‘ White  floss.” 

My  Aunt  Fanny  said,  that  when  she  first  saw  my 
mother,  she  thought  her  “the  most  beautiful  creature 
she  had  ever  set  eyes  on.”  My  father  and  mother 
met  first  in  the  house  of  Mr.  John  R.  Murray,  the  fine 
old  house  in  Hudson  Square.  A house  always  softly 
haunted  for  me,  in  later  years.  And  I think  Mrs. 
David  Codwise  claimed  that  she  introduced  them  to 
each  other.  And  one  other  lovely  thing  I want  to 
tell.  Will  it  hurt  her  memory,  with  this  fast,  inde- 
pendent, irreverent  generation  ? I cannot  give  the  date, 
nor  say  how  long  the  friendship  had  run  on,  nor 
whether  the  words  were  drawn  from  her  by  some  com- 
ment ; but  the  day  came  when  the  girl  said : 

‘ ‘ Mother,  if  you  have  any  objection  to  him,  tell  me 
now.” 


CHAPTER  V 


BABY  DAYS 

In  1810  my  father  went  to  New  York,  with  as  few 
earthly  friends  before  him  as  silver  pieces  close  at 
hand.  Among  the  travellers  on  that  long,  rough  win- 
ter journey,  was  Mr.  David  Cod  wise,  a young  lawyer 
of  New  York,  who  had  been  up  to  Red  Hook  (spoiled 
now  into  Barrytown)  to  see  Miss  Livingston,  his  be- 
trothed. So  began  a dear  and  life-long  friendship. 

My  father  entered  the  office  of  Mr.  Robert  Emmet,  as 
a law  student ; and  at  last,  with  the  ‘ ‘ prentice  time  ” all 
over,  toiled  steadily  on  to  those  heights  of  standing  and 
achievement  towards  which  he  had  looked  so  long. 
But  it  was  not  quick  work ; perhaps  it  rarely  is.  Even 
after  his  marriage,  in  one  of  my  mother’s  early  letters, 
she  dwells  a moment  on  ‘ ‘ how  pleasant  it  will  be  when 
we  are  rich  enough  to  have  a little  home  in  the  country, 
of  our  own.” 

In  the  War  of  181 2,  he  held  a commission  in  the  army, 
but  was  never,  I think,  ordered  out  of  New  York. 
He  wrote  to  my  grandfather: 

“I  want  the  loan  of  your  white-footed  horse  for  a 
couple  of  months,  to  ride  upon  parade  and  in  the 
field.  I am  allowed  pay  (i.  e.  forage)  for  two  horses; 
but  not  even  for  one,  unless  I keep  one.  Besides,  a 
horse  I must  have. — And  what  do  you  think  I must 
pay  for  one  by  the  month  here?  45  dollars,  forsooth! 
and  can’t  get  one  of  any  sort  for  less.” 

31 


32 


Susan  Warner 


li2jth  Feb.  1815.  This  is  the  first  letter  since  the 
Peace ! How  much  I have  thought  of  you ; how  eagerly 
have  I wished  to  stretch  my  hand  to  yours,  and  give 
visible  expression  to  our  sympathy  and  joy.  ‘Glory 
to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  Peace ! ’ I would 

have  given  more  than  I am  worth  to  be  the  first  to 
communicate  the  tidings;  to  fling  the  blessed  sound 
upon  your  ear.” 

My  Aunt  Fanny  was  in  New  York  at  school  that  year ; 
and  I have  heard  her  tell  how  one  evening  a strange  cry 
was  heard  in  the  street  (in  those  pre-  “extra”  days) 
and  how  every  one  rushed  to  the  front  door.  And 
there,  speeding  along  as  best  he  could,  came  a small 
boy ; and  as  he  came,  he  cried : 

‘ c Peace ! Peace ! I wish  my  voice  was  bigger !” 

In  1817,  my  father  and  mother  were  married,  and 
established  themselves  in  the  little  old  city,  when 
State  Street  was  the  West  End,  and  there  was  not 
a house  on  the  north  side  of  Walker  Street.  In 
those  days  of  very  slow  transit,  when  wind-bound 
sloops  were  a week  in  reaching  Albany,  and  when  the 
winter  sleigh-ride  over  bad  roads  and  through  the  hills 
was  yet  harder  to  bear,  my  father’s  frequent  going  to 
Court  was  a serious  matter.  Delayed  mails,  no  tele- 
graph, and  weather  at  least  no  gentler  than  we  have 
it  now,  made  the  150  miles  to  Albany  a big  separation. 
We  call  it  four  hours,  but  then,  four  days  or  more. 
And  often  the  Court  met  yet  further  away;  and  my 
father  was  a passionate  home-lover,  always  on  the 
stretch  to  get  back  from  wherever  the  Session  might 
be ; homesick  as  a girl  sometimes,  if  the  Hotel  band  at 
dinner  struck  up,  “Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home!” 
Yet  with  it  all,  well  nigh  as  undemonstrative  as  the 
proverbial  New  Englander. 


33 


Baby  Days 

In  these  absences  almost  daily  letters  passed  be- 
tween the  two ; letters,  not  notes.  Telling,  as  no 
description  could,  the  exquisite  bond  of  love  and  trust. 
But  there  are  no  honeyed  phrases. 

Sometimes  my  mother  spent  the  lonely  weeks  at 
Jamaica,  her  mother’s  country  home.  She  was  there 
with  my  first  little  sister,  when  in  May,  1818,  my  father 
wrote : 

“Take  care  of  the  little  blessing,  with  a kiss  into 
the  bargain,  and  a heartful  of  benedictions.” 

In  July— 

“As  I go  not  up  the  river  till  Wednesday,  you  will 
see  me  again  tomorrow.  I must  take  another  look  at 
my  little  cherub  before  I go.” 

And  a week  later,  and  then  far  away : 

“How  is  the  dear,  dear  babe?  Oh  the  dear,  dear 
babe!” 

Ah,  what  are  the  earthly  distances  of  which  we  make 
so  much ! Before  the  summer  days  of  the  next  year 
had  dawned,  the  fair  little  daughter — “just  able  to 
walk  a little  and  talk  a little” — flew  quite  away,  from 
earth  to  heaven;  and  one  small  lock  of  shining  hair  is 
all  of  her  I know.  And  so  it  was,  that  in  the  very  high 
tide  of  the  year,  July  n,  1819,  my  darling  came,  to 
sorrowing  hearts  and  to  a childless  house.  Next  day 
this  word  was  sent  my  grandfather: 

“It  will  give  you  pleasure,  I am  sure,  to  know  that 
God  has  again  exhibited  his  bounty,  in  giving  us  a 
daughter, — a fine  fat  babe.” 

And  the  next  message  is  to  my  mother,  on  Aug.  9. 

“Take  care  of  yourself,  my  Anna,  and  of  our  dear 
little  Sue.” 

So  came  healing  and  joy  once  more,  by  the  soft 
baby  hands.  Perhaps  for  that  very  reason  ‘ ‘ the  queen 


34 


Susan  Warner 


could  do  no  wrong”;  and  the  parents  found  it  hard  to 
say  her  nay,  to  thwart  her,  or  control  her.  And  this 
child,  with  a strong  temper,  an  imperious  will,  a master- 
ful love  of  power  that  very  ill  brooked  curbing,  and  a 
relish  for  the  right  of  way  that  might  have  served  a 
boy,  had  no  doubt  of  her  royalty  in  feoff.  So  say  the 
traditions ; so  she  always  told  of  her  self. 

“My  will  was  never  broken,”  I have  heard  her  say, 
“until  the  Lord  took  it  into  his  own  hands  to 
do.” 

She  wras  named  for  her  grandmother,  who,  of  course, 
became  thenceforth  the  most  zealous  of  devotees ; and 
the  earliest  glimpses  I have  of  her  are  in  the  old  letters 
that  passed  between  Jamaica  and  New  York.  But  oh 
for  a photograph  to  fill  out  the  brief,  faded  sketches 
in  pen  and  ink! 

They  are  not  in  envelopes,  these  old  grandmother- 
letters  that  lie  beside  me,  but  written  on  small  square 
sheets  of  roughish  paper,  yellow  with  time,  and  were 
folded  in  old-fashioned  letter  form.  Now,  all  are  filed 
in  neat  oblong  slips,  with  broad  blue  card  board  on 
either  side  the  bundle,  lest  the  string  should  cut ; and 
all  carefully  endorsed  in  my  mother’s  beautiful  hand. 

Within  are  counsels,  hopes,  fears,  advice,  news  (!) 
and  pictures.  Very  few  of  them  were  sent  by  mail, 
if  such  service  was  then  between  New  York  and  her 
“coasts.”  They  were  sent  by  the  stage,  by  convey- 
ance, in  somebody’s  coat  pocket, — more  reliable  then, 
perhaps,  than  such  depositories  are  now. 

24th  Oct.  My  father  wrote  to  his  youngest  brother : 

“The  baby  is  much  indebted  to  you  for  your  kind 
inquiries  about  her.  And  as  for  kissing,  she  has  her 
share,  I can  tell  you,  from  day  to  day ; and  you  may 
set  as  much  of  it  to  your  account  as  you  like : it  is  all 


35 


Baby  Days 

one,  I believe,  to  her.  You  will  hardly  know  her  when 
you  return,  she  has  grown  so  much ! ” 

The  wonderful  baby  had  well  nigh  reached  the  ma- 
ture age  of  four  months,  when  my  grandmother 
wrote : 

‘ ‘ I would  give  a good  deal  to  see  my  sweet  little  babe, 
and  hear  her  crow.” 

Three  days  later: 

“How  is  my  dear  little  Susan?  I quite  long  to  see 
her  bright  eyes  and  eager  looks.” 

‘ ‘Eager,” — ah  yes,  I make  no  doubt.  When  was  she 
anything  but  ‘ ‘ eager  ” ? 

“As  to  the  little  baby,  I cannot  tell  you  how  I 
long  to  see  her.  Mr.  B.  is  lavish  in  her  praises. 
The  moment  he  opens  the  door  on  his  return,  the  first 
thing  is  the  creature : how  much  she  has  grown,  and 
how  sweet  she  is.” 

This  was  in  the  winter  of  1819-20;  and  another 
letter  of  about  the  same  date,  sends  “a  kiss  to  the 
little  one,”  and  has  this  bit  of  an  old  time  picture  of 
the  mother. 

“Mr.  B.  says  you  are  running  about  streets  all  in 
white , and  look  as  gay  as  a bird.” 

White  cambric  dresses  in  New  York’s  winter  winds ! — 
plainly,  people  were  not  the  furnace-dried,  hot  house 
plants  they  are  now.  But  imagine  that  pretty  Battery 
end  of  Broadway  (when  Fourth  Street  was  out  of 
town)  sprinkled  with  women  in  white  gowns  and 
slippers,  with  short  red  cloaks  flying  open  from  the 
throat.  They  say  you  could  study  one  butterfly  as 
she  came  towards  you,  watch  her  out  of  sight,  and  be 
ready  for  the  next.  Perhaps  the  fashion  of  dress  was 
not  really  more  disastrous  than  some  of  our  own,  but 
it  sounds  worse. 


3^ 


Susan  Warner 


On  June  io,  1820,  my  mother  sent  this  word  to  my 
father,  then  away  at  Court. 

“Our  precious  little  daughter  is  very  well  this 
morning,  and  looks  like  a rosebud.” 

Then  later  my  grandmother  writes : 

“You  have  drawn  a sweet  interesting  picture  of  little 
Susan,  with  four  teeth,  playing  “ tarouches,”  shaking 
hand  for  dada,  and  now  and  then  getting  a bump:  but 
I do  not  like  that  part  of  the  exhibition.  You  had 
better  put  some  pillows  round  her,  so  as  to  protect  her 
head,  when  she  falls.” 

Plainly,  the  little  lady  lost  no  time  in  making 
acquaintance  with  the  strange  world  on  which  she 
had  entered:  the  ‘ ‘eager”  nature,  mental  and  physical, 
went  promptly  to  work. 

After  the  fashion  of  some  in  those  days  (as  too  often 
in  our  own,)  many  of  the  letters  have  no  date  but  of 
the  month  and  day.  This  one  however  gives  a glimpse 
so  real  and  familiar,  that  it  suits  1900,  as  well  as  1820. 

“Since  I have  begun  with  admonitions,”  says  my 
grandmother,  ‘ ‘allow  me  to  beg  that  you  will  not  have 
the  baby  at  table  any  more.  It  is  such  an  aggravation 
to  the  poor  little  thing.  She  wants  to  eat,  and  cannot 
be  expected  to  exercise  much  self-denial  at  her  age. 
I think  it  injures  her  temper  to  be  fretted  so  much. 
I also  think  that  she  is  scolded  too  much : scolding,  to 
have  effect,  should  be  resorted  to  very  rarely.  Indeed 
I do  not  like  it  at  any  time,  for  so  young  a child.” 

All  of  which  goes  to  show  how  very  dear  the  little 
hazel-eyed  girl  was  to  my  grandmother,  so  that  every- 
thing not  praise,  she  counted  blame.  But  “scolding”! 
— there  was  never  even  a traditional  sound  of  it,  in 
our  house. 

Here  is  another  picture,  quite  touching  up  to  the  last. 


37 


Baby  Days 

“You  do  not  know,  nor  did  I myself  feel  sensible 
of  the  anxiety  which  I should  experience  on  Susan’s 
account,  until  I got  home.  But  now  that  I can  sit 
down  and  reflect,  I am  frightened  at  the  risk  which  I 
think  there  is  in  her  holding  her  breath  so  long.  I 
am  very  much  afraid  that  it  will  throw  her  into  convul- 
sions. I hope  you  will  endeavor  to  govern  her  some 
other  way  than  by  whipping.” 

That  way,  I think,  was  never  tried:  was  she  not  a 
queen  in  her  own  right? 

Still  1820. 

“ I long  to  see  my  dear  little  babe.  Mr.  B.  says  she 
has  got  a new  and  very  pretty  trick  of  turning  her  head 
on  one  side  and  looking  very  sweet  at  you.” 

Again. 

“I  do  so  long  to  see  her  sweet  face  and  hear  her  sing ; 
that  is  quite  a new  trait  in  her  character.” 

1821.  “ Dear  little  Susan,  how  I long  to  see  her  sweet 

face,  even  with  her  little  tongue  run  out.  I bear  her 
no  malice  for  not  lamenting  my  absence.  Indeed  I 
should  be  sorry  to  grieve  her  in  any  way.  I did  expect 
to  hear  that  she  had  another  tooth  before  this,  but  that 
pleasure  is  yet  to  come.” 

There  ’s  a South  Sea  Island  effect  about  the  descrip- 
tion here,  which  is  misleading.  The  “little  tongue” 
was  not  thrust  out  in  anger  or  defiance,  but  rather  in 
full  content ; just  far  enough  to  shew  between  the  lips. 
And  this  “sucking  the  tongue”  was  such  a very  “com- 
fortable enjoyment,”  that  the  baby  grew  to  be  a 
big  girl,  before  she  could  bring  herself  to  quite  give 
it  up. 

“ My  dear  child. 

“ I feel  very  uneasy  about  your  being  exposed  to  the 


38 


Susan  Warner 


effects  of  the  paint.  I hope  you  will  be  very  careful  of 
yourself,  and  not  only  of  yourself  but  of  all;  and  little 
Sue  in  particular;  dear  little  thing.  I shall  not  soon 
forget  her  sweet  little  love  pats  while  we  were  at  dinner.” 

And  in  June  my  father  writes  from  Albany: 

‘ ‘ Kiss  the  little  one  for  papa — and  I have  a big  tear 
or  two  to  divide  between  you.” 

The  next  short  extract  from  a New  York  letter, 
written  when  she  was  nineteen  months  old,  shows  a 
very  wide  awake  little  girl,  amid  very  old  time  sur- 
roundings. I suppose  we  have  all  heard  of  such  wall 
paper  as  my  mother  refers  to. 

“The  little  one  is  very  well,  and  talks  a great  deal 
about  Sam  and  Grandpa  and  Grandma.  Yesterday 
she  pointed  to  one  of  the  coaches  on  the  paper  and  said : 
‘ Sam,  ’■ — that  was  to  tell  me  Sam  was  driving ; and  she 
then  added:  ‘Grandpa  in  dere.  Tuny  in  dere’;  as  in 
her  imagination  she  had  placed  herself  and  Grandpa  in 
the  carriage,  with  Sam  to  drive.  She  reads  your  letters 
with  almost  as  much  interest  as  I do.” 

11  May  2nd , 1821.  We  arrived  here”  (at  Jamaica) 
“in  very  good  season  yesterday  afternoon,  and  ‘in 
good  safety,’  as  you  once  said,”  writes  my  mother. 
“ Susan  is  highly  delighted:  she  galloped  from  one  room 
to  another  like  a young  colt  in  a pasturage ; she  could 
not  take  one  step  in  so  moderate  a way  as  walking.” 
The  next  recorded  activity  is  less  pleasant,  and  later 
in  the  year. 

“And  poor  little  Susan  has  had  a fall.  It  seems 
strange, ” commented  my  grandmother,  “that  she 
should  fall  down  stairs  at  this  time  of  day.” 

N.  B.  She  was  not  near  three  years  old.  What  was 
expected  of  children,  in  those  times? 


CHAPTER  VI 


WORLDS  TO  CONQUER 

Perhaps,  as  a change  from  the  baby  talk,  some  other 
bits  of  the  old  letters  may  be  given.  One  smiles  to 
think  how  well  grown  was  human  patience  in  those 
days ; and  also  how  human  impatience  found  much  to 
stir  it  up. 

11  Albany,  June,  1821. 

“So  here  I am,  my  dear  Anna,  on  the  pinnacle  of 
Capitol  Hill  and  within  a door  or  two  of  the  capitol 
itself,  that  place  of  debate  and  folly,  a place  which 
raises  no  sentiment  of  awe,  nor  even  of  respect,  as  I 
behold  it,  but  rather  excites  associations  of  disgust, 
contempt  and  shame.  Such  is  the  character  of  our 
Legislature ! 

“We  reached  Hudson  this  morning  at  about  eight 
o’clock,  and  Albany  before  12.  It  is  now  11  o’clock 
at  night.  I must  conclude  the  day  with  a word 
to  my  far  off  dear  ones.  And  oh  how  my  heart 
leaps  forth  to  you,  my  wife  and  my  children!  How 
often  and  how  tenderly  have  I remembered  you  by  the 
way ; and  now  as  I sit  in  my  solitary  chamber,  the  voice 
of  affection  is  echoing  through  all  the  regions  of  my 
spirit.” 

Then  comes  a bit  from  my  “ schoolgirl”  Aunt  Fanny. 


39 


40 


Susan  Warner 


Hudson , June,  16,  ' 21 . 

“ My  dear  Brother  and  Sister. 

“The  fair  wind  on  Saturday,  which  seemed  to  promise 
me  a speedy  passage  up  the  river,  did  not  continue  any 
longer  than  to  separate  me,  in  the  space  of  two  or 
three  hours,  from  almost  all  the  friends  I have  on  earth. 
My  time  was  so  much  occupied  with  thoughts  of  those 
I was  leaving  and  those  I was  about  to  visit,  that  the 
violent  thunder  storm  which  succeeded,  passed  almost 
unnoticed.  Sunday  was  rather  a fatiguing  day  to  me, 
for  it  was  so  calm  that  we  did  not  proceed  more  than 
three  or  four  miles  until  late  in  the  evening.  Monday 
morning  w'e  found  ourselves  within  forty-five  miles  of 
Hudson ; and  the  Captain  said  we  should  not  probably 
reach  there  that  night;  he  was  however  mistaken,  for 
at  eight  a fine  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  south,  and 
by  one  o’clock  we  were  safely  landed.  The  passengers 
on  board  the  sloop  were  very  polite  to  me. 

“You  cannot  know  nor  even  imagine,  how  much  I 
want  to  see  Susan  and  little  Henrietta,  pretty  girl!  I 
did  not  know  till  I left  them  how  much  my  happiness 
depended  upon  them.  When  I was  on  the  river  and 
saw  anything  worth  noticing,  I fancied  I heard  Susan’s 
sweet  little  voice  saying,  ‘ See  there,  Fanny';  and  it 
would  be  some  time  before  I could  believe  myself 
absent  from  her.  Don't  let  her  forget  me." 

But  about  little  Susan  there  was  soon  a strange,  new 
tale  to  tell. 

There  had  come  to  the  household  in  that  same  year 
1821  (I  think,  I cannot  yet  find  the  record)  another 
daughter.  One  of  those  child  angels  that  seem  sent 
here  for  a time,  to  shew  the  world  what  the  world  might 
be.  I do  not  know  that  she  was  an  especially  pretty 


41 


Worlds  to  Conquer 

child : the  little  bit  of  brown  hair  gives  no  such  token. 
It  is  not  so  shining  as  the  first  little  girl’s.  But  she  was 
tender,  loving,  wistful,  with  that  sort  of  pathos  which 
those  children  wear,  who  have  not  come  to  stay.  And 
everyone  spoke  of  her  “ sweet  eyes.” 

It  was  against  this  little  creature,  that  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  small  child-mortal  blazed  forth.  Ap- 
parently she  resented  the  teaching  of  those  “sweet” 
heavenly  eyes.  And  perhaps,  some  mischief-making 
nurse  sowed  seeds  of  jealousy,  with  her  foolish  talk. 

‘ ‘ She ’s  got  your  place.  ’ ’ ‘ ‘ Nobody  ’ll  love  you  now, ’ ’ 
and  so  forth. 

And  little  Susan  had  been  queen  of  the  house  for 
almost  two  years : and  to  abdicate  willingly  was  never 
her  strong  point.  What  right  had  this  new  baby  in 
her  kingdom? 

From  New  York,  Nov.  1821,  the  troubled  mother 
wrote : 

“Susan  and  Henrietta  have  both  had  colds,  but  are 
now  better.  Susan  grows  more  unmanageable  every 
day ; this  morning  she  stuck  a pin  in  Henrietta’s  neck 
so  that  the  (‘pin’  or  ‘point,’  letter  tom)  remained 
hanging  in,  and  she  knocks  her  over  and  slaps  her  and 
throws  things  at  her,  so  that  I have  my  hands  full.” 

To  this  came  a most  grandmotherly  reply. 

“You  have  no  idea  of  the  sensation  your  note 
created.  To  hear  that  our  dear  little  favourite  was 
deservedly  in  disgrace,  was  a heart-rending  circum- 
stance. Tell  little  Susan  that  grandma  will  not 
love  her  if  she  is  not  kind  to  her  little  sister ; tell  her  that 
all  good  children  love  their  sisters,  and  that  Mr.  B. 
says  that  he  will  not  bring  her  any  more  apples  if  she 
is  not  good.” 

O the  identity  of  the  world  in  all  ages! — the  same 


42 


Susan  Warner 


mixture  of  apples  and  threats  and  high  principles! — 
making  up  what  we  venture  to  call  “moral  suasion”! 
The  letter  goes  on : 

“ I am  afraid  she  is  not  managed  right.  I know  you 
wish  to  pursue  the  right  method,  but  with  such  a child 
it  is  difficult  to  ascertain  what  that  method  is.” 

I do  not  know  how  long  this  state  of  things  lasted; 
the  later  accounts  tell  a very  different  story:  but  my 
sister  remembered  this  about  herself,  as  hardly  any- 
thing else  of  that  early  date. 

“How  hateful  I used  to  be  to  little  Henrietta!” 
so  she  would  say;  and  I think  it  troubled  her  all  her 
life.  And  late,  late  in  her  life,  when  once  “in  dreams 
and  visions  of  the  night”  she  saw  what  seemed  like 
a visitor  from  the  other  world ; the  angel  wore  Hen- 
rietta’s face. 

But  after  this  the  picture  of  the  two  children  is 
very  lovely. 

Feb . 2i,  1822.  My  mother  wrote: 

“Little  Henrietta  is  asleep  in  a basket  near  me  and 
little  Susan  sits  on  the  nurse’s  lap,  looking  at  pictures.” 
There  follow  on  the  third  page,  various  large  cunei- 
form dashes  and  scrawls ; and  my  mother  adds : 

“You  will  be  able  to  read  and  interpret  Susan’s  letter, 
I presume.  She  says  I must  tell  some  stories  about 
little  insects.” 

To  which  my  father  made  answer  (the  letter  was 
four  days  in  reaching  him) : 

“Do  not  forget  to  thank  my  dear  little  Susan,  too, 
for  her  two  postscripts.  The  marks,  though  illegible, 
are  full  of  meaning  in  my  eyes;  and  if  she  knew  how 
they  search  all  the  secret  places  of  my  heart,  she  might 
wonder  at  the  extent  of  her  tender  sway.  Dear,  dear 
babe! 


43 


Worlds  to  Conquer 

“And  not  less  dear  is  that  other  little  one  that  sleeps 
so  sweetly  in  the  ‘big  chair/  Oh  if  a husband’s  and 
father’s  blessing  could  bring  down  all  the  mercy  that  it 
would  fain  bestow,  how  happy  should  my  wife  and 
children  be.” 

The  letter  goes  on  with  a touch  or  two  upon  public 
affairs,  which  one  hopes  may  be  true  now,  as  well  as 
then. 

“As  for  the  Whitesborough  folks  and  their  silly 
resolutions,  whatever  they  may  seem  to  portend , they 
are  not  likely  to  achieve  any  present  mischief.  Their 
extravagance  is  an  antidote  to  their  venom.  Our 
democrats  of  the  old  school  here,  as  well  as  our  high 
minded  gentlemen  of  the  new,  bestow  their  ridicule 
upon  the  whole  subject  without  much  reserve.  And 
the  burning  of  the  postmaster’s  house,  tho’  a bad  evi- 
dence concerning  the  virtues  of  the  mob,  must  yet 
recoil  in  its  influence,  with  considerable  disadvantage, 
upon  the  guilty  party  from  whose  revolutionary 
principles  the  outrage  has  proceeded.  Indeed,  the 
entire  proceedings  of  the  Albany  bucktails,  in  regard 
to  Mr.  Van  Renselaer’s  post  mastership,  are  a tissue  of 
most  palpable  folly,  as  well  as  of  wickedness.  And 
upon  the  whole,  I am  inclined  to  think  the  immediate 
effect  of  these  things  upon  the  public  mind  may  be  not 
unwholesome.” 

The  mother  and  children  were  then  at  Jamaica;  and 
Feb.  21,  tells  this  story. 

“Yesterday  was  quite  a mild  and  pleasant  day,  and 
we  took  Susan  up  to  the  bam,  where  she  had  the  plea- 
sure of  seeing  the  pigs,  feeding  the  chickens,  &c.  she 
was  delighted.” 

Further  on — “Susan  is  in  the  kitchen  helping  her 
grandmother  make  doughnuts ; and  Henrietta  lies 


44 


Susan  Warner 


asleep  in  the  big  chair.  I must  let  Susan  write  on  the 
other  page.”  This  letter  crossed  one  from  Albany. 

“How  are  our  little  daughters?  Does  my  little 
Susan  ever  remember  her  poor  father?  Poor,  indeed,  I 
am,  without  my  family  around  me.  You  must  tell  me 
all  Susan  says  of  me,  and  let  me  see  some  of  the  marks 
however  unmeaning  and  uncouth,  of  her  sweet  little 
fingers.  And  as  for  Henrietta — alas  she  can  neither 
speak  nor  mark.  I am  afraid  she  will  even  cease  to 
remember  me.” 

“ Albany , Feby.  1822.  After  two  days  and  nights 
miserably  dragged  out,  I am  here  in  safety  at  Crutten- 
den’s,  having  arrived  in  town  at  seven  o’clock  this 
evening.  We  had  about  an  average  of  12  passengers  in 
the  stage  all  the  way ; and  from  N.  Y.  to  Pokeepsie,  the 
road  for  the  most  part,  is  more  tremendously  hilly  and 
precipitous  than  I had  ever  before  remarked  it  to  be.” 

A queer  picture  of  the  times  and  the  people  comes 
next. 

“Alb.,  Feby.  1822. 

“Your  letter  of  the  20th  came  to  my  hands  this 
morning,  full  of  kindness  and  good  tidings.  And  let 
me  assure  you  that  nothing  could  have  been  more 
truly  welcome.  For  you  must  know  that  my  time  be- 
gins to  move  heavily  here.  Days  are  already  turning 
to  months.  Missing  that  severe  employment  in  which 
I expected  to  engage,  I find  I cannot  well  supply  its 
place  by  merely  voluntary  occupations.  Nor  am  I 
without  some  considerable  positive  evils  in  the  imme- 
diate circumstances  of  my  exile.  The  house  is  full  of 
boarders ; all  of  my  own  sex ; and  such  a lot  of  fellows  I 
never  saw  before;  good-natured  people  certainly,  but  of 
vulgar  and  disagreeable  manners.  They  are  noisy  as 


Worlds  to  Conquer 


45 


if  every  empty  head  of  them  were  of  bell  metal  with 
an  iron  tongue  in  it.  The  din  is  really  shocking:  I 
will  try  to  give  you  some  idea  of  their  obstreperous 
abilities. 

“Perhaps  you  have  never  heard  of  a game  or  play 
called  ‘The  Synagogue.’  It  was  performed  here,  in 
Cruttenden’s  long  parlour,  night  before  last,  with  great 
eclat.  Some  twenty  or  thirty  of  our  most  distinguished 
noise  mongers  being  seated  around  a long  table,  one  of 
them  took  a pack  of  cards,  and  began  to  hand  them  out 
one  by  one,  in  rapid  succession  to  his  next  neighbour, 
on  the  right,  expressing  to  him  every  time,  in  very 
audible  terms,  the  name  of  the  card  delivered.  The 
receiver  instantly  passed  them  on  as  fast  as  he  got  hold 
of  them,  to  the  person  sitting  next  in  the  circle,  re- 
peating their  names  to  him  a little  more  loudly,  to  make 
sure  of  being  heard.  This  third  person  in  his  turn  did 
the  like  exactly,  taking  care  to  give  the  due  increase  of 
volume  to  his  tones  of  utterance,  that  none  of  them 
might  be  lost.  And  so  the  cards  went  round,  as  fast 
as  hands  could  give  them  passage,  until  in  a moment, 
the  whole  company  were  fully  engaged  soul  and  body 
(if  indeed  they  were  not  of  the — World  without 
Souls *)  in  the  inexpressible  delights  of  ‘ The  Syna- 
gogue.’ Delights  too  ecstatic  to  last  forever.  But 
they  continued  without  interval  or  abatement,  for 
about  a quarter  of  an  hour ! Only  think  of  it.  Such 

a collection  of  human  beings  thus  employed!  Their 
voices  all  in  full  blast  at  once;  and  every  mother’s 
son  of  them  striving  and  straining,  at  each  successive 
effort  of  his  stentor  lungs  to  make  himself  triumphantly 
audible,  above  the  general  tumult  and  in  spite  of  it,  to 


A very  old  and  odd  little  book. 


46 


Susan  Warner 


hisdextral  companion  in  the  joyous  circle. — 0 Bedlam! 
the  confusion  of  Babel  and  ten  thousand  times  more 
noise ! Blessed  were  the  deaf  ears. 

“In  short,  my  dearest  wife,  the  thing  was  beyond 
all  description.  And  who  will  deny  that  it  afforded 
a reasonable  and  fit  amusement  for  lawyers  and  legis- 
lators, for  persons  such  as  I.  O.  Hoffman,  Jas.  Tal- 
madge,  I.  J.  Oakley,  and  a host  of  others.  I had  not 
the  grace  to  partake  with  them,  tho’  they  tried  to 
force  me  into  the  pleasing  recreation. 

“ What  a contrast  to  the  pleasures  of  our  peaceful 
and  happy  home!  And  what  a preparation  for  the 
incomparable  solace  of  your  letters!  ” 

“ Albany,  1822. 

“This  is  rather  a dull  day  with  me,  because  Sunday 
having  interrupted  the  course  of  the  mails,  I have  lost 
a mail,  and  of  course  a letter  from  you. 

“ I have  this  moment  returned  from  the  Senate  cham- 
ber, where  I left  E.  Williams  (of  Hudson)  in  the  midst 
of  a speech  before  the  Court  of  Errors.  It  is  a long 
time  since  I have  before  heard  him,  and  from  the 
general  admiration  he  has  commanded  of  later  years, 
my  desire  to  hear  him  was  quite  eager.  Yet  you  see 
I am  satisfied  before  he  has  finished.  And  I feel  dis- 
posed to  say,  with  the  gravedigger  in  Hamlet,  ‘pugh’! 
He  has  good  native  parts,  undoubtedly ; and  he  occa- 
sionally displays  some  truly  brilliant  sallies.  But  he  is 
spoiled  by  his  impudence.  He  declaims,  and  rants,  and 
raves ; his  action  outruns  his  argument ; his  ingenu- 
ity gets  the  better  of  his  judgment ; his  wit,  with  all  its 
sparkles,  never  emits  a blaze.  And  though  his  merits 
were  as  great  as  they  have  been  sometimes  represented, 
his  inordinate  pretension  and  assurance  must  needs 
suffocate  our  respect.  In  short,  I have  n’t  taken  such  a 


47 


Worlds  to  Conquer 

dose  of  disgust  in  an  age,  as  this  gentleman  has  in  a 
few  minutes  administered  to  me. 

“So  much  for  Mr.  Counsellor  Williams. 

“I  drank  tea  last  night  with  her  excellency — (Don’t 
be  alarmed) — and  she  inquired  particularly  about  you. 
To  shock  you  more,  his  excellency  is  to  be  my  host  at 
dinner  today.  So  we  go. 

“ ‘Alas,  that  my  husband,’  say  you,  ‘should  after  all 
become  a Clintonian’!”  ’T  is  a woful  thing,  I admit. 
Pray  try  to  make  some  propitiation  for  me  with  Mr.  B. 
before  I see  home.  Who  can  tell,  however,  that  I may 
not  yet  come  out  of  the  fire  unharmed  ? Hope  for  the 
best. 

“How  are  my  owny-dony  babies?  You  must  kiss 
them  and  love  them  doubly  for  my  sake,  until  I return 
to  divide  with  you  the  pure  beatitude.  The  thought  of 
another  hour  here  is  a sword  to  my  heart.” 

“I  long  to  see  my  dear  little  Susan,”  says  another 
grandmother  letter;  “ but  as  that  cannot  be,  I wish  you 
would  now  and  then  tell  me  something  about  her.  And 
you  may,  too,  while  you  are  about  it,  say  a word  or  two 
about  Henrietta:  her  blue  eyes  are  often  in  my 
thoughts.” 

Again:  “I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  our  little  Susan  is 
not  well.  I fear  she  took  cold  on  the  Battery ; though 
the  air  was  not  cold,  yet  the  ground  was  damp.” 

But  far  better  than  Madison  Square  at  a venture. 
Happy  old-time  children,  with  such  a playground  as 
the  Battery. 

One  very  human  picture  is  given  of  little  Henrietta: 
a little  baby  girl  sick,  and  crying  for  what  she  could  not 
have. 

“Poor  little  Etta!”  writes  my  grandmother,  “she 
quite  disgraced  herself  yesterday.  I told  Mr.  B.  the 


48 


Susan  Warner 


scene  we  had  passed  through,  and  what  was  the  burden 
of  her  song.  He  was  quite  amused,  and  huzzaed  for 
Susan.” 

Ah  what  did  “Susan”  do,  I wonder:  how  did  she 
show  off,  to  merit  such  plaudits?  Did  she  lecture  the 
baby  ? Or  coax  her  ? Or  put  her  own  cake  away  out  of 
sight?  For  cake  made  all  the  trouble.  The  letter 
adds:  “We  love  our  dear  little  cry-baby,  notwith- 
standing. Oh!  how  that  incessant  ‘Cake/  rings  in  my 
ears.” 

For  a long  time,  the  next  fall,  my  father  was  away  at 
Court;  and  letters  went  back  and  forth,  his  with  this 
sort  of  refrain : 

“Adieu,  then,  my  wife,  my  little  Susan,  my  precious 
Henrietta,  my  all — And  may  God  in  infinite  mercy 
keep  you.” 

From  Albany , Sep.  i. 

“I  arrived  here  at  a little  after  n,  this  morning, 
and  am  safely  lodged  with  my  old  friend  Cruttenden, 
on  the  hill.  The  house  is  overflowing  with  company. 
Secy  Thompson,  his  wife  and  Mr.  Slosson,  with  his 
beautiful  wife  and  a daughter ; and  the  old  common  law 
squad  (Williams,  Oakley,  Talmadge,  Hoffman,  & c., 
&c.)  is  complete.  Not  even  Fenno,  the  baboon,  is  want- 
ing, to  play  fool  for  the  amusement  of  the  party.  ‘Odi 
profanum  vulgus’  is  more  than  I may  venture  to  say, 
in  application  to  the  state  of  things  around  me,  consid- 
ering the  quality  of  some  of  these  personages.  But  I 
am  not  and  never  shall  be,  a lover  of  the  society  of 
mere  men  of  the  world.  And  after  being  worried  for 
an  hour  with  their  senseless  babble,  it  is  an  unspeakable 
relief  to  retire  to  my  chamber  and  converse  with  you. 
I met  Mr.  Saul  on  board  the  boat.  He  has  gone  on  to 
Saratoga.  His  wife,  he  tells  me,  is  yet  in  the  hospital, 


Worlds  to  Conquer 


49 


and  no  better.  I did  n’t  perceive  that  the  subject 
distressed  him  at  all.  He  is  as_cold  as  the  polar  ice, 
or  it  would ; nevertheless  I think  him  rather  a sensible 
man.  He  was  very  civil  to  me,  and  begged  me  to  call 
at  his  house  whenever  I may  go  to  Philadelphia.  His 
daughter  is  there.  He  inquired  particularly  about 
you. 

“By  the  civility  of  Mr.  Saul  I was  made  acquainted 
with  Com’re  Patterson,  who,  you  may  remember, 
was  somewhat  distinguished  in  the  part  he  had  in 
the  defence  of  New  Orleans,  in  the  last  war.  He  is  a 
sensible  and  gentlemanly  man. 

“It  is  needless,  I know,  to  tell  you,  my  dear  wife, 
that  you  must  continue  to  love  me  more  than  I deserve. 
Your  name  is  in  the  very  centre  of  my  heart,  with  those 
of  the  little  ones  entwined,  like  a wreath,  about  it. 
The  Lord  keep  you  and  them,  and  give  you  the  choicest 
of  his  blessings.  To  his  grace  and  good  providence  I 
commend  you.  Write  me  every  mail  if  possible.” 

Sep.  i , 1822.  From  Jamaica.  “ My  little  Susan  has 
just  come  up  stairs  to  shew  me  a little  ginger  cake  that 
she  has  been  making  for  her  Aunt  Fanny.  Her  little 
hands  were  all  dough,  and  she  is  as  much  delighted  as  if 
she  had  accomplished  some  great  thing.  She  improves 
wonderfully  in  spelling.” 

“ Sep.  2.  Yesterday  morning  as  soon  as  Susan  got 
into  my  bed,  she  said:  ‘Mother,  I am  thinking  of  my 
dear  father.  ’ ‘ What  are  you  thinking  of  him  my  dear  ? ’ 

‘I  am  thinking  that  he  wants  to  see  his  little  Susan.’ 
I took  Susan  to  church,  both  morning  and  afternoon 
yesterday:  she  behaved  very  well.” 

That  same  day  my  father  wrote  from  Albany : 

“How  are  our  dear  jewels?  I long  exceedingly  to 
hear  from  you.  Do  they  appear  to  remember  me  ? I 


50 


Susan  Warner 


dare  say,  not.  But  fond  fathers  will  ask  fond  questions. 

0 how  my  life  is  bound  up  in  those  babies!  ” 

“Sept.  j.  It  seems  an  age  since  I arrived,  and  I look 
for  your  first  letter  as  a weary  traveller  does  for  rest. 

1 shall  see  my  faithful  wife’s  hand,  and  hear  her  voice 
speak:  and  she  will  tell  me  of  my  little  daughters,  and 
perhaps  interpret  some  of  their  sweet  prattle. 

“ I have  as  yet  paid  no  visit  to  anybody — even  his 
excellency.  I begin  to  be  better  satisfied  with  my 
companions  here.  We  have  had  some  pleasant  con- 
versation today.  There  is  a Mr.  Storrs  here,  who 
has  been  several  years  in  Congress.  He  is  from  the 
western  part  of  our  State,  and  is  a sensible  man,  of 
very  considerable  talents;  Peter  A.  Jay  is  also  one  of 
our  inmates. 

“It  is  a grievous  thing  that  just  at  this  time,  the 
arrangement  of  the  steamboats  should  have  been 
altered  so  as  to  give  us  only  three  arrivals  a week. 
We  shall  however  have  a daily  mail,  and  that,  although 
the  land  mail  runs  but  half  as  fast  as  that  by  water, 
must  satisfy  us.” 

“Sept.  4.  You  cannot  tell  how  much  I am  de- 
lighted with  the  remembrance  of  my  dear  little  Susan, 
and  the  improvement  of  sweet  little  Henrietta.  The 
good  Lord  continue  to  bless  and  keep  you  all.” 

Then  from  Jamaica. 

“Sept.  4.  Susan  is  very  happy  and  appears  to 
enjoy  her  visit  very  much.  She  says  that  all  Mr.  B.’s 
things  are  hers.  She  does  not  feel  at  all  inclined  to 
spell,  now,  nor  do  I urge  it;  her  mind  is  so  much 
engrossed  with  other  objects.” 

The  spelling  mania  came  of  its  own  accord,  if  I re- 
member the  story ; and  I think  was  two-fold : spelling 
for  other  people,  and  making  them  spell  for  her.  And 


Worlds  to  Conquer  51 

the  assumption  of  a right  to  other  people’s  goods  was 
also  at  one  time  much  in  favour.  They  told  of 
her  as  out  with  my  mother,  and  suddenly  smitten  with 
the  charms  of  a basket  that  some  whistling  boy  brought 
by.  When  she  cried : 

“ Tune  hab  boy’s  backs ! Tune  hab  boy ’s  backs !” — 
till  the  alarmed  boy,  to  protect  his  property,  took  to 
his  heels  and  ran. 

Another  time  when  my  father  was  in  deep  political 
talk  with  some  gentleman  and  the  name  “bucktail” 
came  up  pretty  often,  the  small  child  proclaimed  her 
rights  with  a vehement — 

“Tune  hab  bucktail!” — which  probably  turned  the 
conversation. 

She  had  dubbed  herself  “Tune”  and  “Tuny”;  and 
“Tune  hab  moon ! ” was  no  unheard  of  demand ; nor  an 
unreasonable  one,  from  her  point  of  view:  for  self 
confidence  came  early  to  the  front.  As  the  letters 
proved,  she  was  very  fond  of  drawing  pictures.  One 
day,  presenting  her  slate  for  public  admiration,  she 
remarked : 

“Tune  draw  a doose.  Fine  a doose  dat!  Why  she 
knows  everything ! ’ ’ — 

I think  my  father’s  later  word,  that  if  he  told  her  to 
move  the  bam  she  must  not  say  she  could  not  do  it, 
but  go  and  try,  fell  upon  ready  ears. 

Another  time,  coming  in  from  a walk  with  the  nurse 
in  city  streets,  she  told  this  of  herself. 

“I  cried,  and  screamed,  and  wanted  to  go  in  Fulton 
Street.”  Just  why,  has  not  transpired,  but  what  she 
wanted,  she  must  have. 

“ Albany , Sep.  5.  I have  just  returned  from  a visit 
to  Oliver  Kane’s,  where  were  also  Elias  Kane,  his  wife 
and  daughter  Elizabeth.  We  had  some  very  good 


52 


Susan  Warner 


singing  from  the  young  ladies,  accompanied  with  the 
piano.  It  would  have  given  me  pleasure  indeed  if  you 
had  been  the  performer,  or  been  present  only. 

“The  Kanes  profess  a very  great  respect  and  regard 
for  you.  Elias,  particularly,  says  you  are  his  favourite. 

“By  the  by,  I am  more  than  half  sorry  I didn’t 
bring  you  and  the  children  with  me.  It  is  so  common  a 
thing,  I find,  for  gentlemen  to  do  this,  that  on  another 
occasion  I shall  not  hesitate.  If,  however,  you  were  not 
infinitely  different  from  (I  do  not  say  superior  to — for 
that  would  be  needlessly  blunt)  all  the  other  wives  that 
have  been  lately  brought  hither,  my  pride  would  not 
be  so  much  gratified  as  my  affection  might,  by  your 
presence  here.  I was  thinking  of  you  in  this  contrast 
today,  while  I sat  at  dinner. 

“Nor  would  I have  you  imagine  that  we  have  not 
some  very  considerable  personages  of  your  sex,  at  our 
table,  from  day  to  day. 

“Apropo — (Don’t  be  startled) — Mrs.  Col. — and 
suite,  arrived  among  us  yesterday.  Think  of  that — as 
rosy  as  a very  rose.  She  is  travelling  westward — on  a 
route  of  her  own  sovereign  choice — and  the  story  goes, 
that  her  kind  attentive  husband  attends  her  perforce — 
Think  of  that  too. 

“The  Court  is  travelling  on  slowly.  The  second 
cause  will  be  finished  to-morrow. 

“0  how  are  my  dear  wife  and  children?  and  when 
shall  I see  them?  To  him  whose  blessing  is  life  and 
happiness  I commend  them.” 

From  Jamaica , Sept.  7.  “I  wash  and  dress  the  chil- 
dren myself  and  mother  puts  Susan  to  bed,  and  gener- 
ally Henrietta.  Susan  affords  us  a great  deal  of 
entertainment.  She  is  so  much  pleased  here,  that 
whenever  we  go  to  ride  she  seems  afraid  that  I am  going 


53 


Worlds  to  Conquer 

to  take  her  away ; and  asks  me  if  I will  bring  her  back 
again.  Henrietta  is  my  bedfellow.  If  she  wakes  in 
the  night,  she  says  ‘Ma  and  puts  out  her  little  hand  to 
feel  if  I am  there,  and  when  I take  hold  of  it,  she  goes 
asleep  again.  The  other  morning  after  she  woke,  she 
lay  caressing  me  some  time.  I suppose  she  kissed  me 
above  twenty  times.  Susan  also  is  very  tender  in  her 
manner  towards  me  and  towards  Henrietta.  Yester- 
day morning  she  got  into  bed  with  her,  and  began 
talking  to  her  in  the  most  endearing  manner ; and  said 
to  me.  ‘What  sweet  eyes  she  has  got!’” — Susan  was 
then  three  years  old. 

Albany , Sep.  yth. 

“Although  I did  not  write  you  last  night  as  usual, 
yet  I lose  no  mail  by  it.  A word  this  morning  will 
reach  you  by  the  earliest  conveyance  after  my  last  date. 

“You  can’t  imagine  how  much  I have  regretted  that 
I didn’t  bring  you  with  me.  The  present  prospect  is, 
that  I shall  be  detained  here  all  next  week,  for  Mr. 
Jones  and  I were  informed  last  night  that  our  cause  will 
not  be  brought  on  at  the  first  calling. 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Johnson  is  a professor  of 
Christianity.  Profession  indeed  is  a thing  which  must 
be  permitted  to  stand  low  upon  the  scale  of  evidences; 
but  the  absence  of  this  is  an  almost  infallible  indication 
that  everything  else  is  wanting.  If  a person  has  not 
faith  enough  to  make  him  think  it  necessary,  even  in 
this  respect,  ‘to  come  out  from  the  world  and  be 
separate,  ’ what  degree  of  faith  can  we  justly  ascribe  to 
him?  If  he  have  not  sufficient  love  to  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  to  create  some  desire  for  the  distinctions  of  his 
house,  some  feeling  of  the  duty  of  keeping  the  sacra- 
ments he  has  appointed,  some  aspiration  for  the  hon- 
our of  a visible  station  in  his  train  and  service,  some 


54 


Susan  Warner 


sense  of  obligation  to  do  ‘in  remembrance  of  him,’ 
that  which  he  has  commanded;  charity,  indeed, 
which  ‘hopeth  all  things,  ’ may  hope  even  in  such  a 
case,  but  reason,  judging  from  all  that  appears,  must 
pronounce  the  case  desperate. 

“ And  now,  farewell  again  my  dearest  wife.  Tell  my 
little  ones  how  much  their  father  loves  them.  I thank 
my  dearest  Susan  for  her  sweet  love.  There  is  nothing 
sweeter  on  this  side  of  heaven.” 

“ Albany , Sept.  8th. 

“ My  dearest  wife, 

“I  have  just  returned  from  Mr.  Weed’s  church  where 
I heard  one  of  his  sermons  in  exactly  the  old  style.  He 
is  a man  of  feeble  powers  but  of  truly  evangelical 
doctrine  and  piety,  and  the  only  Presbyterian  clergy- 
man of  that  description,  I fear,  in  this  city.  I was 
very  glad  to  see  the  chancellor  and  all  the  judges 
sitting  under  his  ministry. 

“You  may  perhaps  be  surprised  to  hear  me  speak 
thus  of  Mr.  Weed,  without  excepting  Mr.  Chester 
from  the  class  of  those  whom  I do  not  consider  truly 
evangelical.  Mr.  C.  is  probably  a good  man  but  he  is 
not  of  the  school  of  St.  Paul.  I have  often  heard  him 
preach,  but  never,  as  the  phrase  is,  with  edification. 
He  is  one  of  your  ‘moral  society’  men,  whose  labours 
are  devoted  to  the  suppression  of  vice  by  ordinary  means. 
He  preaches — I cannot  say,  like  a philosopher, — but 
with  too  much  desire  and  parade  of  philosophical  rea- 
sons. He  talks  a great  deal,  indeed,  about  the  Bible, 
and  Christianity ; but  not  so  much  in  the  character  of 
one  who  seeks  to  bring  perishing  men  to  heaven,  as  of 
one  who  is  endeavoring  to  build  up  a beautiful  system 
of  morals,  and  thus  to  improve  the  present  condition  of 


55 


Worlds  to  Conquer 

the  world.  And  he  seems  hardly  to  be  aware,  that 
the  basis  of  sound  and  abiding  morality  is  to  be  laid  in 
vital  Christianity  alone. 

“ Upon  the  whole  how  meagre  does  the  present  state 
of  the  Gospel  ministry;  almost  everywhere,  appear! 
Deo  sic  visum  est. 

“ I presume  my  little  Susan  has  been  at  church  with 
you  this  morning ; and  now,  perhaps,  she  is  telling  you 
how  the  preacher  talked  and  the  people  sang.  Me- 
thinks  I hear  her  angel  voice.  And  dear  little  Etta  too 
— Her  accents  fall  at  times  upon  my  ear — and  with  what 
sweet  emphasis  I will  not  undertake  to  describe. 
Blessed  be  the  Lord  for  his  great  bounty,  displayed 
toward  us  in  our  children.  Let  it  be  the  office  of  our 
lives  to  train  them  in  his  nurture.” 

(The  same  date,  but  at  night.) 

“ I have  this  moment  received  your  letter  of  the  5th, 
which  came  by  the  Richmond  as  I expected.  I had 
previously  put  into  the  mail  for  you  a little  line  written 
this  morning ; but  a sense  of  your  kindness  provokes  me 
to  add  another  to  bear  it  company,  especially  as  you 
set  so  high  a value  on  my  poor  despatches. 

“Nothing  can  be  more  just  than  your  view  of  the 
folly  of  marrying  for  money.  It  is  a good  remark  of  a 
man  not  remarkable  for  wisdom,  that  ‘ no  person  ever 
married  a fool  without  repenting  it.’  And  I daresay 
Barclay  will  be  convinced  of  this,  if  he  is  not  already. 
Nothing  upon  earth  can  compensate  for  the  want  of 
personal  worth,  in  a life-companion.  His  own  wits  are 
not  however  very  distinguished  in  my  estimation,  and 
he  will  therefore  feel  his  misfortune  less  acutely. 

“ While  on  this  subject,  I cannot  but  mention  that 
Mrs.  Col. — came  to  dinner  today  beastly  drunk.  As 


5^ 


Susan  Warner 


soon  as  she  had  attained  her  seat,  near  one  end  of  the 
table,  she  called  out  to  Mr.  Jay,  who  was  near  the  other, 
and  begged  him  to  change  his  place  and  take  one  by 
her.  Poor  Mr.  Jay  (who,  you  know,  is  equally  bashful 
and  civil)  complied.  Upon  which  the  old  hag  began  a 
conversation  with  him  in  very  loud  tones,  to  the  great 
divertisement  of  the  company.  She  distinguished  him 
as  much  as  she  did  herself.  He  blushed,  the  whole 
company  was  set  upon  a smothered  laugh,  and  the  scene 
was  ludicrous  enough  for  some  time.  At  length  Hoff- 
man got  up,  and  asked  Mr.  Jay  to  go  and  take  a walk 
with  him,  and  thus  delivered  him  from  his  embarrassing 
predicament.  The  Col.  sat  mum  all  the  while.  Miser- 
able man.” 

“Albany  Sept.  gth.  It  seems  forever  since  I saw  the 
faces  of  my  wife  and  children.  Nothing  more  is  per- 
mitted me  at  present,  than  to  think  of  them — and  love 
them — and  pray  for  them. 

“ I have  met  with  no  man  in  Albany  who  treats  me 
with  more  marked  and  agreeable  politeness  than  the 
Chief  Justice.  Judge  Platt  is  very  civil,  and  I must 
say  kind ; but  he  is  so  exceedingly  phlegmatic,  and  has 
so  little  of  the  generous  elements  of  a great  man  in  him, 
that  I take  no  pleasure  in  his  company.  Judge  Wood- 
worth, with  still  less  ability,  has  more  suavity  of  man- 
ners ; but  he  is  a very  Frenchman,  he  can  smile  without 
being  pleased,  and  has  indeed  no  heart  at  all.  But 
Judge  Spencer,  though  stem  and  even  cynical  in  his 
public  appearance  when  he  is  sitting  in  his  judicial 
office — yet  see  him  in  his  family,  or  anywhere  out  of  the 
ermine,  and  you  find  him  frank,  affable,  warm-hearted, 
the  man  to  be  loved  as  much  as  respected.  I have  been 
with  him  today  at  his  house.  He  inquired  about  you, 
and  seemed  to  wish  you  had  come  with  me,  that  he 


Worlds  to  Conquer 


57 


might  shew  you  also  the  civilities  due  to  a sti  anger  and 
a fine  woman.  And  in  all  this  he  is  perfectly  simple  and 
unaffected. 

‘ ‘ But  it  is  time  to  bid  you  goodnight.  Remember  me 
in  your  devotions.  I pray  God  to  watch  over  you  and 
the  dear  babes.  His  care  and  his  blessing  are  better 
than  everything  else.” 

11  Albany,  nthSepr. 

“From  what  I learned  of  the  course  of  the  mail,  I 
concluded  it  was  in  vain  to  write  to  you  yesterday. 
Nor  am  I quite  sure  there  will  be  a mail  tomorrow;  as 
the  steamboat,  due  this  morning  from  New  York,  has 
not  yet  arrived,  although  it  is  past  ten  at  night.  There 
is  a rumour  that  she  burst  her  boiler  on  her  last  trip. 

“ I will  not  however,  neglect  you  another  day,  be  the 
chances  of  the  mail  what  they  may ; for  I assure  you 
I feel  how  painful  it  is  to  wait  for  expected  and  desired 
letters,  having  received  none  from  you  since  that 
brought  by  last  Saturday’s  boat.” 

It  sounds  almost  like  the  middle  ages.  Think  of 
talking  of  “the  steamboat”  and  “her  boiler,”- — when  now 
the  fair  waters  of  our  river  are  never  at  rest,  and  one 
train  is  hardly  out  of  hearing  before  another  rushes 
up.  Inconvenient  times,  those,  but  very  lovely : I could 
not  truthfully  liken  them  to  ages  called  “dark.”  I 
wonder  if  what  follows  is  more  near  our  own  times? 

“My  cause  has  been  called  and  passed , the  appel- 
lant’s counsel  not  choosing  to  bring  it  to  a hearing. 
The  consequence  is  one  I can  hardly  think  of  with 
patience ; it  is  nothing  less  than  that  I must  stay  here 
another  week.  The  thing  has  been  managed  entirely 
by  J.  H. — and  his  object  is  apparent  enough.  He  is 
not  without  hope,  I believe,  that  the  Court  may  get 
tired  and  adjourn  before  they  come  round  again  to 


58 


Susan  Warner 


Mumford  and  Murray  on  the  Calendar;  but  what  he 
particularly  aims  at,  is,  to  give  time  for  J.  B.  to  mature 
his  out-door  operations,  and  to  try  what  secret  and 
undue  influence  can  do  in  aid  of  a bad  cause. 

“As  to  the  probable  success  of  this  young  gentle- 
man’s machinations,  I have  at  present  no  fear.”  (I 
think  I have  heard  my  father  speak  of  this  case  as  one 
in  which  he  recovered  largely  for  his  clients.) 

“The  report  from  N.  York  today  (bro’t  by  a sloop,) 
represents  the  fever  as  extending  its  dominion  consider- 
ably.” 

This  must  have  been  that  last  outbreak  of  yellow 
fever  in  New  York,  when  certain  streets  and  districts 
were  roped  off,  and  people  went  to  the  old  house  so 
lately  torn  down,  comer  of  Nineteenth  St.  and  Broad- 
way, as  an  out-of-town  refuge! 

“ I tmst  our  dear  children  continue  well.  It  is 
matter  of  regret  that  they  cannot  know  how  their 
dear  father  loves  them.  They  never  will  know,  unless 
they  are  destined  to  become  parents  themselves. 
If  they  do  not  forget  me  altogether,  during  my  absence, 
I must  be  satisfied.” 

From  Jamaica , Sept.  12.  “I  cannot  tell  you  how 
ardently  I long  for  your  return,  and  how  anxious  your 
little  Susan  is  to  see  you.  She  said  to  me  today: 
‘Mother,  I want  to  see  my  dear  Father!  won’t  you  take 
me  home  this  mediately  when  he  comes  back  from 
Albany  ?’  Dear  little  thing,  I believe  she  is  really  very 
desirous  to  have  you  return;  for  she  tells  everybody, 
that  as  soon  as  you  come  back  she  is  going  home  this 
minute.  She  says  she  loves  her  dear  father.  ” 

Sep.  13th.  “0  no,  my  dear;  your  children  wdll  not 

forget  you.  Susan,  in  particular  speaks  of  you  almost 
every  day.  She  came  to  me  today  and  told  me  she 


Worlds  to  Conquer 


59 


meant  to  make  her  own  sweetmeats.  She  had  got  a 
very  small  jar  that  she  was  endeavouring  to  cover  with 
paper,  which  she  wished  me  to  tie  with  twine,  and 
which  she  said  was  for  her  dear  father.” 

Poughkeepsie , 22nd  Jan.  *2j. 

“My  dearest  wife, 

“We  arrived  here  a quarter  before  eight  o’clock, 
after  a tedious  ride:  having  come  to  Peekskill  on 
wheels,  and  then  on  runners,  with  but  poor  sleighing. 
The  sun  has  thawed  the  snow  exceedingly  these  two 
days.  From  this  to  Albany  we  go  all  the  way  on 
runners ; and  I am  told  the  sleighing  will  be  found  very 
good.  We  may  therefore  expect  to  finish  our  journey 
by  sundown  tomorrow. 

“ Except  a little  headache  I am  perfectly  well.  It  is 
a great  comfort  to  me  in  my  absence  from  you,  to 
reflect  that  you  and  my  dearest  babes  are  with  our 
kind  and  constant  friends  at  the  old  mansion.  I 
pray  God  to  requite  their  kindness  an  hundred  fold. 
And  Oh  may  he  keep  you  and  our  little  precious  charge, 
and  bring  to  you  again  in  due  season  his  most  unworthy 
servant,  but  whose  unworthiness  does  not  consist  at  all 
in  any  deficiency  of  affection  for  his  family.” 

From  Jamaica,  Feb.  25.  ’23. 

“ The  little  dear  Susan  is  well,  and  as  entertaining  as 
ever.” 

“ The  first  thing  Henrietta  spoke  of  this  morning  was 
‘dear  Faver.’  I believe  she  thought  you  were  in  the 
cot.” 

March  6.  “This  morning  there  was  a very  bright 
streak  in  the  sky.  Henrietta  saw  it  and  said:  ‘O 
pretty  sky  on  mantel  piece!’  Susan  laughed  and  said: 


6o 


Susan  Warner 


‘ Dear  little  thing ! She  does  not  know  anything  about 
it.  The  sky  is  not  on  the  mantel  piece,  dear.’” 

It  is  the  last  entry  about  the  two.  The  little  one  had 
been  saying  that  winter : 

“ Summer  days  come  bimeby.  Then  Etta  go  Aunt 
Fanny’s  house,  and  walk  on  the  pepazza.” 

And  the  summer  days  came.  But  the  “ sweet-eyed” 
child  was  borne  away  to  a fairer  home,  and  after  days 
of  inexpressible  suffering  entered  safely  in,  where 
“there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor 
crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain.” 

Patient  little  darling!  Aunt  Fanny  said,  how  in  the 
extremity  of  her  suffering,  one  little  hand  would  be 
lifted  and  laid  down  again,  with  untold  expression, 
but  wdth  not  a word  or  cry. 

Long  years  after,  when  my  Aunt  witnessed  the  gen- 
tler w^ays  of  homeopathic  practice  (and  when  indeed 
all  methods  were  so  much  toned  down)  she  used  to 
remember  keenly  what  little  Etta  went  through,  in 
those  dark  days  of  medical  skill. 

And  so  the  letters  came  back  to  their  old  wording,  and 
“kiss  my  dear  little  girl  for  me,”  was  all  that  could 
be  said.  But  it  almost  broke  my  father’s  heart. 

The  following  is  all  the  written  record  I have,  and 
needs  one  word  of  explanation.  With  my  father, 
deeply  stirred  feeling — especially  of  grief — was  apt  to 
work  itself  out  in  verse  and  measure. 

“N.  York , 16th,  July  1823. 

“The  written  verses  my  dear  Brother  T.  were  copied 
last  night  by  my  poor  wife,  to  send  to  you ! And  she 
would  have  written  a word  to  go  wTith  them, — but  her 
pen  dropped  from  her  hand  and  she  was  unable  to  go 
on. 

“The  verses,  you  perceive,  addressed  themselves  to 


Worlds  to  Conquer  61 

my  little  departed  Henrietta.  They  have  no  merit  but 
in  a parent’s  eyes.  But  it  will  give  them  some  value 
in  yours,  that  my  wife,  in  the  midst  of  her  affliction, 
copied  them  for  you.” 

H. 


Gone  ? and  forever  ? Fare  thee  well ! 

Thy  spirit  could  no  longer  dwell 
Beneath  thy  native  skies. 

Too  gentle  for  a world  like  this, 

Too  kind,  too  pure,  too  ripe  for  bliss, 
Twas  time  for  thee  to  rise. 

And  yet  how  can  I lose  thee  so  ? 

Stay,  matchless  babe ! thou  must  not  go. 

Thy  father  bids  thee  stay. 

A little  space,  my  child,  and  I, 

Thy  wretched  father,  too  may  die, 

And  join  thy  heavenward  way. 

Gone,  and  forever! — and  she  hears 
No  cry  of  mine — nor  can  my  tears 
Wake  that  sweet  eye  of  love. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  dear  little  one! 

And  when  my  toil,  like  thine,  is  done, 

I ’ll  come  to  thee  above. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  LITTLE  QUEEN 

When  the  first  little  Anna  died,  my  Aunt  Fanny 
wrote : 

“Henry  and  Sister  Anna  are  determined  to  be  re- 
signed to  the  will  of  a better  Power  than  any  on 
earth  ” : there  had  been  no  questionings  then ; there  were 
none  now.  The  old  letters — with  no  black  borders — 
are  as  sweet  and  tender,  as  peaceful,  as  they  were  before ; 
no  lamentations,  no  murmurings.  Indeed  the  sorrow 
is  not  named  (perhaps  the  black  and  white  words 
could  not  be  written  nor  read) : and  an  allusion  to 
“what  we  have  been  through  together,”  covered  all. 
The  burden  of  life  was  taken  up  again  bravely ; and  the 
sweet  things  that  were  left,  stood  at  their  full  value. 

The  little  four-year-old  girl  was  much  engaged  about 
this  time,  with  pencil  and  paper;  drawing  creatures 
that  certainly  never  went  into  the  ark  with  Noah,  nor 
even  could  have  been  “evolved  ” from  those  that  did; 
and  some  of  the  letters  are  largely  illustrated  in 
this  pre-historic  style.  Evidently  not  judged  by  its 
merits. 

“ Mr.  B.  and  I both  long  to  hear  something  about  our 
dear  little  Sue,”  writes  my  grandmother;  “and  to  see 
some  more  of  her  drawings,  and  hear  some  more  of  her 
riddles,  she  is  so  expert  at  composing  them.” 

But  of  these  last,  unfortunately,  I have  found  no 
trace. 


62 


63 


The  Little  Queen 

In  September  of  that  year,  mother  and  child  seem  to 
have  gone  with  my  father  to  Albany  at  Court  time; 
touching  at  Hudson  by  the  way.  My  mother  writes  to 
my  grandmother: 

“ Albany , Sep.  i,  1823.  I saw  all  the  Thurston 
family  yesterday.  Thurston  Bedell  was  so  unwilling 
to  part  with  Susan,  and  she  with  him,  that  I left  her 
to  dine  with  him.  How  she  behaved,  I do  not  know.” 

I wonder  if,  when  my  sister  and  the  Bishop  met  in 
later  years,  either  one  remembered  that  dinner  ? Then 
in  the  same  letter : 

“Little  Susan  is  very  well,  and  bears  the  fatigue 
better  than  I expected.  She  lies  fast  asleep  upon  the 
floor.” 

And  must  have  waked  up  before  the  letter  went  off, 
for  the  last  page  is  adorned  with  a most  extraordinary 
bandit -looking  individual  with  one  leg. 

But  the  delights  of  Albany  seem  to  have  been  soon 
exhausted. 

“I  am  sorry,”  writes  my  grandmother,  “that  my 
dear  little  Susan  finds  so  little  amusement  at  Albany. 
It  is  quite  a pity  that  the  elephant  and  monkeys  are 
not  there  now.  You  must  walk  out  with  her,  fre- 
quently, and  return  all  your  calls ; that  will  amuse  her 
as  much  as  anything.” — From  another  letter: 

“Her  doll  is  ready  dressed,  and  only  waits  a proper 
escort  to  be  conveyed  to  the  city.  I only  hope  she 
may  be  as  well  pleased  with  her  now,  as  she  was  before 
she  had  her  clothes  on.  I have  made  very  loose  sleeves 
to  her  dress,  in  order  that  she  may  move  her  joints. 

New  York , Dec.  1823.  From  my  mother.  “Little 
Sue  is  very  busily  engaged  playing  with  a little  boy  who 
boards  in  the  house  with  us.  He  is  two  years  and 
eight  months  old,  and  he  affords  her  a great  deal  of 


64 


Susan  Warner 


amusement.”  She  herself  having  reached  the  mature 
age  of  four  and  a half.  ‘ ‘ I talk  of  taking  Susan  to  see 
the  Lion.  Do  you  think  it  would  frighten  her?” 

“I  could  hardly  pacify  Susan  after  you  went  away. 
She  said  it  was  so  ‘hard  after  you  get  intimate  with 
some  one  to  be  obliged  to  part  with  them.’  She  is  very 
well,  but  laments  her  Grandma’s  absence  greatly.” 

No  hint  there  of  the  faultless  grammarian  of  later 
years. 

I am  not  sure,  but  I think  it  may  have  been  the  same 
year  that  Henrietta  died,  that  a little  boy  "was  bom  into 
the  household ; but  not  to  tarry  long.  Within  the 
twelve-month,  I believe,  he  too  was  taken  away,  and 
my  sister  was  again  the  only  child.  And  still  there  are 
no  murmurings : only  patient  words  of  faith  and  hope ; 
and  the  one  darling  left  is  at  a premium  in  all  her 
words  and  ways. 

“ March  22nd.  Our  little  Sue  is  very  well.  As 
lively  as  a bird,  and  as  intelligent  as  such  a little  thing 
can  well  be.” 

“ March  24.  Your  letters  were  received  last  evening 
with  more  delight  than  you  can  well  imagine.  Little 
Sue  was  all  attention  while  I read  hers  aloud  to  her, 
but  when  I got  through  she  fairly  sobbed  from  emotion  \ 
she  could  hardly  get  asleep ; she  said  it  made  her  so 
unhappy  that  her  father  wanted  her  ‘dear  little  arms 
about  his  neck.’  She  said  she  squeezed  herself  as  if 
she  was  hugging  Father.  Dear  creature ! I never  wit- 
nessed a more  touching  scene  in  my  life.  She  has  more 
tenderness  for  you  than  I thought.” 

“ March  26.  I hope  to  hear  from  you  again  tonight, 
but  that  little  Sue  may  send  you  some  drawings,  I must 
begin  my  letter  before  receiving  yours.  Our  dear 
little  daughter  has  made  me  read  over  your  letters  a 


The  Little  Queen 


65 


great  many  times,  she  takes  great  delight  in  them  ; and 
often  in  the  course  of  the  day  the  tears  come  in  her 
eyes,  when  she  thinks  of  your  wanting  her  dear  little 
arms  about  your  neck.” 

There  follow,  on  the  rest  of  the  page,  various  pencil 
sketches,  evidently  done  “at  will”  by  the  small 
draughtsman,  and  carefully  labelled  in  greatest  print 
letters : 

HOUSE,  COW,  OSTRICH. 

The  second  page  has  her  letter. 

“My  dear  Father. 

“ I pray  morning  and  night  every  day  to  God.  My 
dear  Father,  I love  you  very  much  and  I want  to  see 
you  very  much  ; please  to  come  in  time.  I ’ll  hug  you 
in  time.  I love  you  very  much,  and  I have  no  doubt 
you  love  me  very  much.  Have  you  got  the  book  to 
Sarah  Hopkins  ? Farewell  my  dear  own  Father. 

“ S.  B.  Warner.” 


My  mother  goes  on : 

“Here  you  have  a letter  from  little  Sue.  She  cannot 
speak  of  you  or  think  of  you  without  tears.  She  makes 
me  read  your  letters  over  and  over  to  her,  and  then  she 
says,  ‘ Poor  Father ! ’” 

From  the  Albany  letter  answering  this — 

“I  could  not  have  dreamed  that  my  precious  little 
babe  thought  so  much  of  me.  What  a treasure  is  such 
a child ! It  makes  me  almost  shudder  to  think  of  her 
in  connection  with  the  vicissitudes  of  human  things. 
But  I leave  the  future  to  him  who  has  the  just  control 
of  it,  committing  her  most  tenderly  to  his  care. 

“Catherine  Sedgwick  has  received  a letter  from  Miss 
Edgeworth.  Think  of  that. 


66 


Susan  Warner 


“I  have  called  yesterday  and  today  on  the  Chief 
Justice,  Gov’r  Clinton,  the  Chancellor,  Mrs.  Backus, 
and  Mrs.  E.  Kane — and  Mrs.  Watson.  The  ladies  all 
inquired  very  particularly  about  you,  and  Frances,  and 
little  Sue.  I drank  tea  tonight  with  Mrs.  Watson,  and 
had  a learned  discussion  with  Abstract  Eben.  The  tea 
and  the  discussion  together  were  a wonderful  refresh- 
ment— to  say  nothing  of  the  light  which  they  both 
equally  shed  upon  the  subject. 

“Give  my  best  regards  to  Mr.  Bogert  and  Mrs. 
Thurston,  and  the  rest  of  the  kind  family — and  as  to 
little  Sue,  tell  her  she  has  made  her  poor  father  almost 
sob  in  turn.” 

“ Albany , March , 1824. 

“My  dear  wife. 

“You  and  little  Susan  together  afforded  me  immeas- 
urable comfort  yesterday,  by  the  sweet  conserve  you 
sent  me  of  letters  and  pictures  combined.  My  appe- 
tite for  such  things — for  anything  that  comes  from 
that  quarter — has  become  exceeding  quick  and  keen. 
Give  my  love  and  blessing  to  the  dear  incomparable 
child.” — The  letter  ends: 

“Farewell,  my  dear  faithful  wife.  I pray  the  Good 
Lord  to  keep  you  and  our  precious  babe.  I cannot  but 
trust  that  her  little  prayers  are  heard  of  him.  Surely 
the  prayers  of  such  innocent  lips  could  not  pass  un- 
noticed in  heaven.  What  a perfect  picture  of  moral 
beauty  is  before  my  mind  when  I am  told  of  her  sweet 
orisons  ascending  to  the  King  of  kings.  Blessed  babe !” 

From  Jamaica . “I  thought  that  dear  little  Sue’s 
letter  would  please  you.  It  was  all  her  own,  as  is  very 
evident  from  the  language.  She  loves  you  as  tenderly 
as  ever  child  loved  parent.  She  has  too  much  sensi- 


6? 


The  Little  Queen 

bility  for  her  own  comfort,  and  it  appears  to  increase. 
She  is  very  anxious  that  you  should  return,  I am  very 
sorry  that  we  cannot  expect  that  return  until  Saturday. 
But  it  will  come  ‘in  time/  as  little  Sue  says.” 

Aug.  2j.  “Little  Sue  is  very  well.  She  made  me 
get  out  your  letter  as  soon  as  you  were  gone.  She 
wants  to  know  how  soon  again  you  mean  to  write  to 
your  dear  little  daughter,  and  if  you  remember  those 
dear  little  arms  about  your  neck.” 

A remarkably  tall  house  with  very  conventional  pine 
tree  supporters  takes  up  the  next  page ; and  a flock  of 
flamingo -billed  geese  of  different  ages  march  calmly 
pass  the  door. 

Aug.  24.  “Little  Sue  lies  asleep  in  the  trundle  bed. 
She  is  very  anxious  to  get  a letter  from  you,  and  loves 
you  as  much  as  such  a little  thing  can  love  a father.” 
Next  morning,  but  on  the  same  page : 

“How  do  you  do  Father?  Will  you  have  time  to 
write  to  me  ? Have  you  money  enough  to  buy  me  that 
little  wagon  to  ride  my  dolls  in?  Are  you  going  to 
write  to  me?  ‘Farewell  my  dear  blessed  baby;  I 
don’t  know  how  much  I would  give  to  have  those  dear 
little  arms  around  my  neck.  It  will  come  in  time. 
Farewell.’  Don’t  you  want  to  see  your  dear  little 
Sue?  O how  I do  want  to  see  my  dear  sweet  Father.” 

“S.  B.  Warner.” 

Pine  trees  and  geese  adorn  the  last  page. 

In  all  the  letters  of  that  time,  of  those  years  when 
loss  followed  loss,  there  is  scarce  even  an  allusion  to 
the  sorrows.  It  is  only  when,  later  on,  my  father  went 
through  a long  deadly  illness,  away  from  home,  that  my 
mother’s  grief  and  rejoicing  break  forth  together. 

‘ ‘ O that  we  may  praise  the  Lord  for  his  goodness  and 


68 


Susan  Warner 


for  his  wonderful  kindness  to  us ! for  he  has  supported 
us  under  great  trials  and  has  delivered  us  out  of  great 
dangers.  He  only  knows  what  our  trials  have  been, 
and  he  only  knows  what  they  might  have  been.  But 
blessed  be  his  name ! he  has  saved  us  from  still  greater 
trials  than  any  we  have  yet  experienced. 

“O  my  dear  Henry,  language  has  no  power  to  tell 
you  what  I have  felt  and  still  feel.  I must  refer  you  to 
your  own  heart. 

“The  dread  of  what  might  be  was  beyond  anything  I 
have  yet  undergone ; for  nothing  on  earth  is  so  dear  to 
me  as  my  husband.’ * 

The  illness  had  lasted  several  months,  and  my  mother 
was  unable  to  go  to  him.  My  father  went  to  Albany  to 
attend  Court,  was  taken  sick  almost  immediately,  and 
lay  there  at  Cruttenden’s,  between  life  and  death,  from 
I think  some  time  in  August,  until  late  in  October. 
Now  at  last  our  mother  wrote  to  her  mother: 

“He  is  beginning  to  talk  about  us,  and  to  send 
messages.” 

“Of  my  dear  little  Susan,”  dictated  my  father  from 
his  sick  bed,  “I  know  not  what  to  say,  unless  to  add 
her  to  the  list  of  blessings  not  to  be  described.  Tell 
her  how  I love  her,  and  how  I want  to  see  her,  and  to 
enjoy  all  her  sweet  affection,  which  I hope  soon  to  do.” 

The  messages  were  all  sent  by  the  hand  of  the 
faithfullest  nurse  man  ever  had : his  youngest  sister,  my 
dear  Aunt  Fanny.  She  wrote  of  him  every  day ; and 
they  say  that  her  brave,  cheery  letters  were  God’s 
agent  to  keep  my  mother  alive,  through  all  that  dread- 
ful time. 

She  was  young ; alone  in  that  crowded  Hotel ; but 
nothing  could  exceed  the  kindness  of  my  father’s 
fellow  lawyers.  My  eyes  “cloud  up”  as  I remember 


The  Little  Oueen 


69 


what  she  has  told.  How  they  lifted,  and  watched,  and 
did  every  possible  thing  to  comfort  him  and  to  help 
her.  No  blessing  of  mine  can  reach  them  now ; but  it 
goes  to  their  descendants. 

Seemingly,  my  mother’s  heart  had  not  been  the  only 
anxious  one  at  home.  Midway  in  one  of  her  letters 
comes  this  delightful  effusion. 

“0  my  dear  Father,  I wish  much  that  you  should  get 
well  the  day  after  tomorrow.  I hope  that  Aunt  Fanny 
will  say  in  one  of  Mother’s  letters  that  you  are  to  set 
off  today.  Dear  Father,  I wish  you  were  here.  You 
do  not  say  anything  about  my  little  sister.  She  is  a 
beautiful  little  creature.  She  is  as  pretty  as  a little  dog 
spotted  with  every  colour : blue  and  purple  and  yellow.” 

“S.  B.  Warner.” 

My  mother  adds : 

“I  think  little  Sue’s  comparison  will  amuse  you. 
She  and  I are  both  very  anxious  to  shew  the  little  one 
to  you.  When  you  were  so  ill  I could  not  look  at  the 
baby  without  a pang ; the  idea  that  you  had  never  seen 
her  and  the  perhaps  that  followed  it,  was  like  a dagger 
piercing  my  heart.  But  now  it  is  all  pleasure.  God 
has  spared  us  yet  a little  while  for  each  other.  I trust 
we  shall  not  abuse  his  mercies.” 

A set  of  wonderful  pencilled  men  and  women  foot 
the  page.  On  the  next  one,  my  mother  goes  on  with 
a few  lines  to  my  Aunt  Fanny,  and  then  comes  in 
another  short  epistle. 

“My  dear  Aunt  Fanny,  how  much  I see  you ! How 
much  I wish  to  see  you ! My  little  sister  is  a dear 
little  creature,  you  never  saw  anything  prettier  in  all 
your  life.” 

“ S.  B.  W.” 


7o 


Susan  Warner 


(Four  days  later.) 

“Little  Sue  remembers  you  with  great  interest.  The 
babe  whom  you  have  never  seen  is  really  a lovely 
infant ; at  least  I think  so.  You  must  find  out  a name 
for  her,  that  I may  know  what  to  call  her  when  I 
introduce  her  to  you.  These  little  creatures  are  not  the 
less  precious  for  all  our  past  experience ; indeed  it  seems 
that  that  experience  endears  them  more  to  us.  I hope 
not  to  love  her  inordinately,  but  with  due  reference  to 
the  Giver  of  her  and  every  other  good.” 

“Dear,  dear  Father,  will  you  if  you  can,  come  to 
your  dear  island  Guanas  ? 1 My  dear  Father  as  soon  as 
you  get  well,  I want  you  to  come  here.  I shall  almost 
devour  you.  As  soon  as  I hear  Aunt  Fanny  and  you 
have  come,  I shall  run  down  stairs  as  fast  as  if  I was 
riding  on  a sled  on  the  ice,  down  a steep  hill,  as  steep  as 
the  ice  house.” 

Yet  when  he  came,  the  shock  must  have  been  great 
to  those  at  home.  My  father  was  a very  tall  man,  but 
Cruttenden  carried  him  in  his  arms  to  the  carriage ; and 
in  like  manner  my  grandfather  lifted  him  out,  and  bore 
him  into  the  house,  when  he  reached  home.  Seeming 
health  came  back  to  the  household  after  a time,  and 
the  usual  business  routine,  but  I doubt  if  my  mother 
was  ever  really  well  again.  Her  “ for  a little  while,” 
was  prophetic:  and  it  seems  as  if  the  coming  shadow 
Drought  up  new  thoughts  of  the  sorrows  that  had  been. 
Some  months  later  she  wrrote : 

“Dearest  Henry,  help  me  by  your  example,  your 
counsel,  your  prayers,  to  live  more  to  God  and  less  to 
the  world.  Let  us  not  be  anxious  about  ‘the  meat  that 
perisheth  ’ ; and  may  we  profit  by  our  past  afflictions. 


1 Guanas, — on  Long  Island. 


The  Little  Queen 


7i 


We  have  been  sorely  afflicted,  and  if  we  are  not  the 
better,  we  shall  be  the  worse  for  our  past  experience. 

'‘Little  Sue  was  not  only  pleased  but  delighted  with 
her  tea  set.  It  far  surpassed  her  expectations,  san- 
guine as  they  were.  She  was  made  very  happy  by  it. 
I wish  I could  hit  upon  some  scheme  of  rewards  and 
punishments  which  would  have  the  effect  of  these  red 
marks,  without  holding  out  a specified  reward  as 
(apparently)  her  ultimate  aim.  She  seems  to  consider 
the  red  marks  not  so  much  as  proofs  of  her  good  conduct 
as  pledges  for  the  attainment  of  her  reward.  So  think 
about  it  and  devise  some  better  plan.” 

The  next  day  went  this  letter  to  Albany. 

“My  dear  Father. 

‘ ‘ I see  very  well  that  my  mother  has  written  a pretty 
short  letter  to  you.  I do  not  intend  to  have  so  short 
a letter  myself,  though  I may  have  one  yet  I do  not 
intend  it.  Do  not  think  that  I will  trouble  you  for 
any  more  things,  I had  rather  send  letters  to  you  than 
do  anything  else.  I believe  that  is  not  quite  true ; I 
like  my  tea  party  and  my  cups  and  saucers  better  than 
writing  letters,  but  I love  you  better  than  my  cups  and 
saucers.  Do  not  say  any  more  about  those  little  arms 
about  your  neck ; but  you  may  if  you  like.  My  dear 
mother  I think  has  not  much  to  say  to  you,  though 
she  likes  you  so  much.  Let  me  say  that  I must  earn 
the  account  of  those  four  Russian  sailors  who  were  cast 
away  upon  a desert  shore.  I pray  for  you  now  morn- 
ing and  evening.  Write  to  me  whether  my  letter  is 
longer  than  Mother’s.  Tell  me  is  little  Sarah  Hopkins 
well,  or  is  she  sick,  or  has  she  got  a cough,  or  is  anything 
the  matter  with  her.  Tell  me  how  my  good  friends 
there  are.  Write  to  me  the  first  day  you  are  able. 


72 


Susan  Warner 


Do  not  get  any  of  those  sicknesses,  yon  know  you  have 
often  had  a sickness,  and  I should  be  very,  very,  very 
sorry  if  you  should  have  any  of  them  again.  I am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  those  cups  and  saucers.  I 
thought  certainly  they  would  be  yellow.  Aunt  Fanny 
said  they  would  be  blue  and  white,  and  so  they  are. 
Did  you  buy  them,  dear  Father?  God  bless  you. 
God  grant  that  you  may  never  more  have  any  of  those 
bilious  sicknesses.  God  bless  you  again  and  again. 

“Susan  B.  Warner.” 


My  mother  adds : 

“I  think  you  cannot  but  be  pleased  with  little  Sue’s 
letter.  It  is  entirely  her  own : indeed  I could  not  write 
as  fast  as  she  dictated.  I neither  added  nor  altered, 
nor  took  away.  You  must  write  to  her  immediately.” 
March  30.  “Susan  is  very  well.  She  says  that  I 
must  tell  you  that  she  likes  her  cups  and  saucers  so 
much  that  she  doesn’t  know  what  to  do.” 

So  far  the  old  letters  go,  with  their  beautiful  clear 
writing;  what  though  now  the  ink  is  faded,  and  the 
paper  time-stained  and  worn.  And  perhaps  after 
this  my  mother  went  always  with  my  father  on  his 
journeys  to  Court ; but  for  whatever  reason,  the  letters 
cease,  and  the  last  part  of  her  life  left  no  record,  but 
in  the  memories  of  those  who  have  long  since  joined  her 
on  the  eternal  shore.  My  father’s  illness  and  slow 
recovery ; the  suspense,  the  fear,  the  nursing  him  back 
to  strength,  all  did  their  work. 

Two  letters  of  hers  to  my  sister  remain : written  when 
the  little  lady  was  queening  it  at  Jamaica,  in  her 
grandmother’s  house.  They  are  both  undated  ■ but 
the  mention  of  me  puts  this  one  very  near  the 
end. 


The  Little  Queen 


73 


“My  dear  little  Sue. 

“I  hope  you  arrived  safe  at  Jamaica  last  evening, 
and  that  you  experience  as  much  pleasure  as  you 
anticipated.  I miss  you  exceedingly  my  darling,  and  I 
shall  be  very  glad  when  I am  again  permitted  to  fold 
my  arms  around  you,  and  imprint  your  cheek  with 
kisses.  (‘It  will  come  in  time.’)  Father  was  quite 
astonished  not  to  find  his  little  Sue  last  evening,  but 
as  he  had  given  his  consent  he  had  not  a word  to  say 
against  it.  He  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you  again. 
Ann  says  that  little  Anna  is  trying  to  tell  your  Aunt 
Fanny  where  you  have  gone  to,  but  that  she  cannot 
make  out.  I have  not  seen  any  of  your  family  except 
Fenella,  since  you  went  away.  I do  not  know  where 
they  have  gone. 

“ Farewell  my  dear  child,  may  God  bless  you  and 
keep  you  from  all  ill. 

“ Farewell, 

“A.  M.  Warner.” 

It  might  have  been  during  that  same  visit  that  my 
father  wrote. 

“My  dear  Susan. 

“I  have  just  returned  home,  and  read  Grandma’s 
letter,  in  which  she  says  a good  deal  about  our  little 
Susy.  It  gives  me  very  great  pleasure  to  hear  that 
you  are  a good  child  and  are  happy.  If  you  are  good, 
you  may  be  pretty  sure  to  be  happy,  always.  But  re- 
member, my  child,  who  it  is  that  makes  you  so.  I hope 
you  say  your  prayers  every  morning  and  evening,  and 
that  you  bring  your  little  heart  to  feel  how  much  you 
owe  to  your  heavenly  Father  for  his  kind  care  of  you. 
He  is  the  best  of  all  friends,  and  he  loves  little 


74 


Susan  Warner 


children,  when  they  remember  him,  and  pray  to  him, 
and  keep  his  commandments. 

“Remember  also,  how  kind  your  dear  grandma  and 
grandpa  are  to  you  ; and  never  disobey  nor  grieve  them. 
We  have  but  a little  while  to  live  in  this  world ; and 
while  here,  we  are  very  dependent  creatures.  Always 
love  and  honour  those  who  are  kind  to  you.  Be  care- 
ful also  not  to  give  anybody  any  unnecessary  trouble. 

* 4 1 am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  improving  in  draw- 
ing. I hope  you  also  read  some  good  books  every  day, 
for  a part  of  your  employment. 

“You  talk,  I understand,  of  staying  from  us  a month 
— a long  month.  I am  afraid  we  shall  not  know  how  to 
spare  you  so  long.  How  do  you  think  your  poor  sick 
mother  can  spare  her  little  daughter  such  a length  of 
time  ? And  how  do  you  think  I can  bear  to  come  home 
day  after  day,  and  see  nothing  of  you  ? I find  it  quite 
hard  already.  And  sometimes,  even  nowT,  when  I look 
around  for  you,  and  listen  to  hear  your  merry  songs, 
and  can  neither  see  nor  hear  you  any  more,  it  seems  as 
if  I could  not  bear  my  disappointment. 

“Alas  my  dear  babe,  you  know  very  little  how~  much 
your  dear  parents  love  you.  But  after  all,  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  for  them  is  to  be  a good  and  dutiful 
child  and  keep  all  God’s  commandments.  By  so  do- 
ing, you  will  best  promote  your  own  happiness.  And 
that  is  what  they  most  desire. 

“Your  dear  mother  and  Auntie  send  their  love  to 
you.  And  little  sister  would  do  the  same  if  she  could. 

“Farewell,  my  sweet  babe. 

“H.  W.  Warner.” 


Between  the  later  years  and  those  where  my  own 
recollections  come  in,  there  is  a misty  middle-distance 


The  Little  Queen 


75 


which  I cannot  handle  with  any  distinctness  of  out- 
line or  sequence  of  detail.  Events  were  few ; and  the 
child  growth  and  change  passed  on  from  day  to  day,  with 
probably  far  less  notice  than  the  baby  years  had  won. 
For  she  was  a little  girl  now  ; and  “ bumps  ” had  ceased, 
and  the  dainty  “ four  teeth  ’ ’ had  long  since  become  a set ; 
and  all  her  early  characteristics  were  well  known  and 
established  facts.  But  our  mother  had  gone  to  be  with 
her  other  children,  and  my  dear  Aunt  Fanny  had  taken 
the  baby  to  her  heart,  pushed  aside  her  own  life  plans 
and  interests,  and  gathered  all  the  little  household 
under  her  most  tender  care. 

“The  children  are  well.  Frances  is  now  everything 
to  them  and  to  me,  ” — wrote  my  father  to  his  father, 
when  at  last  he  could  write  at  all.  And  again,  in 
another  letter : 

“Our  dear  Fanny  is  well.  She  is  my  all  in  all. 
What  should  I have  done  without  her?  I bless  God 
for  such  a sister.” 

No  words  could  be  too  strong.  She  was  a very 
young  woman  then ; extremely  handsome ; and  with 
a wonderful  strength  of  constitution:  mind  and  body 
were  in  rare  perfection.  Quick,  deft,  energetic  ; keen- 
eyed as  few  people  are;  high-spirited,  fearless,  and 
self-contained ; devoted  as  anyone  could  be.  With 
an  exquisite  high-mindedness ; and  for  unselfishness 
and  humility,  like  no  one  else.  Her  step  was  quick, 
her  eyes  bright  and  clear,  her  teeth  wonderful,- — her 
hair  could  not  be  held  with  one  hand. 

Certainly  she  needed  both  hands — and  all  her  skill — 
for  her  new  charge.  I was  but  a small  affair,  indeed, 
but  very  delicate ; and  my  sister  had  all  her  old  vivid 
identity  well  grown  and  developed.  Love  of  power 
was  bom  with  her,  and  a great  relish  for  the  right  of 


76 


Susan  Warner 


way.  And  respect  of  persons  was  unknown.  As  all 
her  life,  indeed. 

Once  when  our  barouche  was  rolling  along  through 
country  roads,  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  seemed  desira- 
ble. Aunt  Fanny  had  a friend  with  her  that  day ; and 
to  her  the  young  persecutor  began : 

“Mrs.  Ledyard — would  you  rather  be  the  fence,  or 
that  big  tree?” 

“Mrs.  Ledyard — would  you  rather  be  the  wheel  of 
the  carriage,  or  an  umbrella?” — 

And  so  on,  with  variations.  I have  heard  Aunt 
Fanny  describe  her  own  silent  sensations ; and  also 
Mrs.  Ledyard ’s,  as  at  last  made  known.  But  she  was 
an  old  friend,  and  so  it  mattered  less.  Slowly  among 
the  traditionary  pictures  I find  myself  come  in  ; one  of 
the  first,  being  of  a day  when  my  sister  drew  me  about 
in  a wicker  wagon,  and  overturned  the  load. 

The  winter  I was  three  years  old,  we  were  boarding 
in  New  York.  One  morning  when  Aunt  Fanny  stood 
before  the  glass,  doffing  her  cap  and  arranging  her  hair 
(people  wore  night  caps  then),  my  sister,  from  one 
comer  of  the  dressing  table,  remarked  that  the  said 
cap  was  not  so  becoming  as  the  one  she  wore  last. 
Whereupon,  the  small  mite  at  the  other  comer  put  in 
her  word. 

“You  must  n’t  expect  Aunty  to  look  very  well  now, 
sister ; she ’s  getting  to  be  quite  an  old  lady.” 

This  was  told  at  the  breakfast  table,  amid  shouts  of 
mirth ; and  one  of  the  young  men  said  to  me : 

“Why  Anna,  you  are  forty.” 

“Beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  retorted  I.  “I’m  threety.” 
The  first  letter  I find  in  my  sister’s  own  handwriting, 
bears  no  date.  Paper,  carefully  ruled  with  pencil 
lines,  the  writing  round  and  clear. 


The  Little  Queen 


77 


“My  dear  Father. 

“How  do  you  do?  I am  very  well  and  so  is  sister. 
I don’t  know  how  it  is,  I am  strangely  altered  in  my 
conduct  towards  the  little  sister.  I am  a great  deal 
better  in  that  respect.  We  are  all  well.  I hope  you 
will  write  a letter  in  return.  Sunday  I read  some  tracts, 
one  of  which  was  beautiful.  I went  to  Church  in  the 
morning,  and  made  fine  April  Fools  at  home.  I must 
end  my  letter. 

“Your  affectionate  daughter, 

“Susan  B.  Warner.” 


Aunt  Fanny  says — 

“Although  you  have  been  gone  but  three  days,  I am 
sure  you  are  beginning  to  be  very  anxious  to  hear  how 
your  dear  little  children  are.  Susan  seems  to  miss  her 
school  a good  deal” — (she  went  but  six  months  in  all) 
“or  at  least  the  exercise  of  mind  and  body  which  it  gave 
her.  She  appears  to  be  perfectly  well  and  is  very  good 
and  obedient.  You  will  be  delighted  with  her  letter 
which  is  all  of  her  own  composing.” 

“ Jamaica , June  4 .” 

“My  dear  Father. 

‘ ‘ I have  spent  the  time  very  pleasantly  since  I have 
been  at  Jamaica.  How  have  you  spent  your  time?  I 
hope  you  will  write  me  a letter  in  return.  I hope  to 
hear  from  you  Saturday.  If  there  is  any  word  or  sen- 
tence in  my  letter  that  is  spelt  wrong  or  anything  of 
that  kind  tell  me  in  your  letter  that  I may  correct  it 
the  next  time.  Margaret  has  got  a musical  snuff  box; 
she  lets  me  hear  it  every  day  and  I dare  say  she  will  let 
you  see  it  too  when  you  come  up  here.  Your  very 
affectionate  daughter, 


“Susan  Bogert  Warner.” 


78 


Susan  Warner 


Mr.  Bogert  adds : 

“My  little  Sue  is  a dear  girl  and  a very  interesting 
guest.  She  is  very  proud  of  her  sister,  and  unexcep- 
tionable in  her  conduct  to  her.” 

From  her  very  early  days,  my  sister  was  often  at 
Jamaica;  carried  off  by  my  grandmother,  a willing 
captive : and  this  was  the  fashion  of  her  going. 

The  old  family  coach,  with  sleek  horses  and  coloured 
coachman ; my  grandmother  on  the  back  seat ; and  on 
the  whole  of  the  front  seat  the  little  Queen.  Feet 
against  one  side  of  the  coach,  head  against  the  other ; 
perhaps  a paper  of  candied  orange  peel  or  ginger — or 
gingercakes — on  her  lap  for  light  refreshment ; and  in 
her  hand  a volume  of  Plutarch’s  Lives,  in  which  she 
read  steadily  all  the  nine  miles  to  Jamaica. 

But  I never  grew  up  to  such  delectable  outings: 
Aunt  Fanny’s  apron  string  was  the  axis  of  my  world : 
and  though  I was  once  coaxed  to  go  for  a day  and  two 
nights:  and  though  I would  not  turn  back,  with  my 
word  once  given : the  silent  tears  that  coursed  down  my 
cheeks  as  we  drove  along,  made  my  grandmother 
quite  sure  she  would  never  try  that  thing  again.  Next 
day  my  sister  sent  me  this  letter. 

“Dear  Anna. 

“How  are  you  all?  Was  grandpa  very  much  sur- 
prised to  see  you?  I suppose  you  play  with  shells  a 
good  deal.  Do  you  want  to  come  home?  Don’t  you 
want  to  see  Aunty  and  all  of  us  very  much?  We  man- 
age some  way  or  other  to  go  on  very  pleasantly  without 
you,  but  I have  not  played  with  dolls  once  since  you 
left  us.  Yesterday  I brought  up  Cupid,  and  warmed 
a cushion  for  her  and  she  was  here  the  greatest  part  of 
the  day.  I sucked  one  of  those  oranges  that  Grandma 


79 


The  Little  Queen 

gave  us  and  then  played  with  the  skin.  I made  some 
maple  sugar  fine  and  then  partly  dried  it.  Aunt  Fanny 
was  going  to  write  to  you,  but  she  is  sewing  hard  to  be 
able  to  come  up  to  Jamaica  tomorrow  evening  or 
Wednesday  morning.  Cupid  is  this  moment  lying 
on  the  green  cloth.  I am  breaking  myself  of  sucking 
my  tongue  but  you  must  not  go  to  begging  for  me. 
Give  my  love  and  a kiss  to  all,  not  forgetting  yourself. 
Aunt  Fanny  says  she  does  not  know  what  to  do  without 
you. 

“Your  affectionate  sister, 

“S.  B.  Warner.” 

“Cupid,”  was  I think  my  kitten — “Bess”  being 
hers;  and  the  “cushion”  sounds  like  a delicate  atten- 
tion to  the  little  sister,  whom  yet  she  “got  along  very 
pleasantly  without.”  But  does  anyone  understand 
the  “green  cloth”? — It  all  comes  back  to  me  as  I read 
the  letter:  the  cloth,  and  the  custom. 

When  the  waiter  came  to  set  the  table  for  dinner,  he 
brought  a large  square  of  heavy  green  baize : and  rolling 
back  the  table,  spread  this  smoothly  on  the  floor.  I 
remember,  well,  jumping  up  to  pull  out  the  corners,  and 
also  how  (in  another  mood)  Cupid  and  Bess  were 
encouraged  to  play  hide  and  seek  under  the  pretty  green 
folds.  Then  after  dinner  the  table  was  rolled  off 
again ; and  cloth  and  crumbs  folded  in  and  borne  care- 
fully away.  I wonder  if  green  baize  is  used  for  any- 
thing in  these  days?  Then , our  waiter  always  had  a 
long,  high  working  apron  of  baize,  in  which  he  cleaned 
brasses  and  did  such  like  work. 

A pleasant  old  house  the  Jamaica  mansion  was : with 
great  evergreens  around  the  sweep,  and  all  sorts  of 
spring  flowers  in  the  borders : bluebells,  iris,  periwinkle, 


8o 


Susan  Warner 


and  daffodils.  Honeysuckles  over  the  porch  (the  old 
sweetest  kind) , and  within,  rooms  full  of  sunshine,  and 
of  newer  things  that  looked  yet  older.  The  round  mir- 
ror between  the  windows,  the  beau-pots  on  the  mantel 
piece,  the  dark  mahogany  chairs. 

At  one  side  of  the  breakfast  room  fire  place  stood  my 
grandmother’s  carved  work  table  and  footstool,  and  her 
straight  backed  chair.  Under  the  table  was  a small 
leather-covered  trunk  resplendent  with  brass  nails,  in 
which  she  kept  her  reserve  force  of  threads  and  needles, 
tapes,  buttons  and  pins.  An  old  time  foot  stove  was 
its  near  neighbour. 

The  top  drawer  of  the  table  was  shallow  and  parti- 
tioned off  for  spools  etc.  but  the  lowTer  one  was  very 
deep  and  full  of  wonders.  Here  was  a black  silk  bag 
of  shining  keys,  the  “Open  Sesame”  to  many  treasures. 
Here  were  kept  also  the  smooth  sticks  upon  which  my 
grandmother  crimped  her  cap  ruffles,  when  they  came 
from  the  wTash ; running  the  fiat  bit  of  wood  carefully 
into  each  broad  hem,  crumpling  the  sheer  muslin  back 
upon  it.  What  clear-starching  there  was  in  those  days ! 
— a lost  art. 

Stored  away  in  that  same  deep  drawer  with  the  bag  of 
keys  was  a great  bundle  of  almanacs,  carefully  stitched 
together  in  (I  suppose)  regular  order.  I have  no  idea 
of  the  number,  but  the  years  represented  were  many. 
And  the  collector’s  instinct  must  already  have  been 
strong  in  me  ; for  small  as  I was,  I never  tired  of  the  old 
almanacs.  There  on  the  floor  by  my  grandmother’s 
footstool,  I would  sit,  turning  over  page  after  page; 
absorbed  in  the  queer  pictures,  the  poetry,  the  fact 
and  fiction,  like  a little  old  Chronicle  myself.  For  I 
could  read  at  four  years  old. 

But  I doubt  if  my  sister  ever  touched  them ; she  was 


8i 


The  Little  Queen 

a bookworm  of  quite  another  sort ; caring  nothing  for 
curiosities,  even  of  literature,  in  those  days  ; little  (then) 
for  poetry ; and  never  in  her  life  turned  collector,  except 
of  dried  flowers. 

So  when  the  bag  of  keys  came  out,  and  we  climbed 
the  stairs  after  my  grandmother  to  what  was  called 
“father’s  room,”  the  opening  of  the  old  inlaid  bureau 
was  watched  with  very  different  kinds  of  interest. 
She  liked  to  get  out  the  ivory  balls  and  have  some  kind 
of  a game  with  them  ; to  sort  and  arrange  the  shells,  and 
to  choose  out  certain  of  these  which  were  at  once  per- 
sonified into  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  an  improvised 
story:  /,  to  wonder  over  the  sea  horse,  the  strange- 
looking  acorns  and  sea  beans,  the  old  spangled  fans, 
the  strings  of  garnet,  the  great  paste  pin.  Just  so  we 
always  divided  off:  unlike  each  other  as  we  well  could 
be.  But  to  go  back  to  her  early  letters. 

“ July  8.  My  dear  Father. 

“Your  letter  gave  me  great  pleasure,  it  seems  like 
a month  since  I came  to  Jamaica.  What  makes  you 
call  Grandpa’s  house  a mansion  ? I shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  you  when  you  come  back.  I have  not  so  much 
to  say  in  this  letter  as  in  the  last  but  Aunt  will  make  up 
for  that,  I hope,  as  she  is  going  to  write  you  a letter. 
How  will  you  like  to  hear  Margaret’s  musical  box? 

“Your  affectionate  daughter, 
“Susan  Bogert  Warner.” 


Aunt  Fanny  adds : 

“Anna  ran  about  the  other  day  saying  to  everyone 
she  met,  ‘Father  sends  me  bessin  ’ ! She  is  the  sweetest 
child  that  ever  was,  I believe.  Susan  was  very  much 
overcome  the  day  you  left  us,  and  gave  herself  a severe 


82 


Susan  Warner 


headache  by  grieving  about  you.  No  children  can  love 
a parent  more  than  she  loves  you.  We  sat  at  the  hall 
window,  if  you  remember,  looking  after  you,  when 
Anna  asked  Susan  what  she  cried  for?  And  then  turn- 
ing to  me  observed  that  I looked  troubled  too.  She  put 
her  dear  little  arm  around  my  neck  and  patting  me 
said,  ‘Dear  Aunty,  I ’ll  take  care  of  you.’  ” 

“ July  io.  My  Dear  Father. 

“I  have  painted  a little  picture  and  sent  it  to  you 
because  I thought  you  would  like  it.  Margaret  found 
a bird’s  nest  with  one  egg  in  it ; the  cat  had  got  the 
bird.  Aunt  is  going  down  tomorrow  to  put  up  the 
raspberry  sweetmeats.  I have  wrote  you  two  letters 
and  you  have  wrote  me  but  one. 

“Your  affectionate  daughter, 
“Susan  Bogert  Warner.’’ 

The  picture  is  still  there,  folded  in  the  letter  by  my 
father’s  loving  hands  ; a little  but  remarkable  basket  of 
flowers,  having  a big  tulip  at  one  end,  a scarlet  some- 
thing at  the  other. 

With  the  intense,  absorbing  love  for  my  father, 
which  was  part  of  her  very  life,  came  in  now  by  de- 
grees another  master  passion,  that  for  books.  Stories 
first,  of  course  ; but  always  books,  books.  They  say  a 
good  preacher  often  enjoys  a bad  sermon,  because  he 
transforms  it  as  he  listens ; putting  in  what  it  lacks, — 
and  I think  she  may  have  done  that  with  many  a sober 
volume ; idealising  all  the  people.  The  next  little  old 
letter  is  undated,  but  must  have  followed  pretty  close 
upon  the  last,  and  was  written  from  Hudson. 

“My  dear  father. 

‘ ‘ Do  not  forget  to  bring  me  something  to  read  when 


The  Little  Queen 


83 


you  come  up,  if  you  can  find  anything  that  suits  you. 
I am  now  finishing  Captain  Cook’s  voyages.  I have  yet 
a good  many  pages  to  read  before  I come  to  his  death 
but  do  not  let  that  prevent  your  bringing  me  a book 
when  you  come  up.” 

‘‘My  dear  Father. 

“I  am  in  very  good  spirits  indeed.  How  are  you? 
I never  felt  better  in  my  life  before.  All  the  rest  of  us 
are  well  too.  Aunt  Fanny  is  in  haste  to  send  the 
letter. 

“Your  very  affectionate  daughter, 

“Susan  B.  Warner.” 


“My  dear  Father. 

“We  had  tea  on  Sunday  evening  before  the  sun  was 
down,  so  I took  it  for  granted  you  would  let  me  read, 
and  Aunt  Fanny  did  not  think  it  was  wrong.  I am 
very  anxious  to  know  how  you  are  and  to  have  you 
come  back. 

“Your  very  affectionate  daughter, 

“S.  B.  Warner.” 

I am  not  sure  what  this  means,  unless  my  father, 
guarding  her  eyes,  had  bidden  her  not  read  after  tea ; 
but  it  shews  her  sense  of  honour,  that  she  states  the 
case  to  him.  A later  letter  from  Aunt  Fanny  gives  this 
message. 

“Susan  says  I must  tell  you  she  is  learning  Latin  like 
a fine  fellow.” 

“ April , 1829. 

“My  dear  Father. 

“O  how  I want  to  have  you  come  back.  When  do 
you  think  you  can  come  back?  How  are  you?  I 


84 


Susan  Warner 


want  a letter  from  you.  You  must  write  to  me  soon. 
Tomorrow  I am  going  to  take  something  that  Dr. 
Hosack  says  will  put  roses  in  my  cheeks.  It  is  called 
rust  of  Iron.  Miss  Robinson  says  that  she  has  taken  it, 
and  that  in  two  weeks  she  had  a brilliant  colour.  You 
know  how  pale  she  is  now.  Last  Friday  I went  to 
Miss  Stevens’  party.  I never  saw  anything  more 
splendid  than  it  was,  nor  grandma  either,  for  she  said 
so.  In  the  middle  of  the  table  was  an  orange  tree  in  a 
glass  dish.  Everything  was  of  the  best. 

“Your  affectionate  daughter, 

“Susan  B.  Warner.” 

It  is  such  a comical  little  old  woman’s  letter — only 
for  the  hint  about  pale  cheeks.  She  must  have  begun 
already  to  outgrow  her  strength ; shooting  up  tall  and 
slender,  unable  to  eat,  and  fed  upon  raw  eggs.  So  it 
was  at  one  time.  I have  seen — and  have  yet  in  pos- 
session— bits  of  the  dress  she  wore  on  that  “splendid” 
occasion.  A clear  yellow  barege,  over  a yellow  silk 
petticoat  and  3'ellow  silk  waist,  and  with  a binding  of 
the  silk  on  the  barege  ruffles  and  flounces.  And  now  in 
the  letters  regular  punctuation  begins ; the  earlier 
ones  were  guiltless  of  any  such  thing. 

“Dearest  Father. 

“Do  not  I beg  m3'  dear  Father  think  that  we  do  not 
love  you  very  much ; nor  do  not  let  what  I said  hurt 
3rour  feelings  in  the  least.  I can  say  for  ntyself  that  I 
do  not  know  an3'bod3T  that  I love  as  well  as  I do  you : 
3'ou  ma3r  be  assured  that  we  shall  all  be  ver3T  glad  to  see 
you  home  again.  I cannot  write  such  letters  as  you  do 
but  I think  I shall  write  a rather  longer  one  than  I did 
last  time.  I believe  that  it  was  Saturda37  or  Tuesda3' 


85 


The  Little  Queen 

that  I brought  home  from  Mr.  Metz’s  a little  piece  called 
the  Fall  of  Paris  to  practise,  not  for  my  own,  you  un- 
derstand me.  Last  Wednesday  we  eat  dinner  and  drank 
tea  at  Cousin  Cornelia’s,  and  Thursday  they  came  here 
and  did  the  same.  How  are  you,  my  dearest  Father? 
We  are  all  very  well.  One  night  since  you  left  us 
Aunt  Fanny  and  I played  two  games  of  Chess.  What 
do  you  think  I did  yesterday  ? What  but  read  some  in 
the  third  volume  of  Prideaux’s  connexion  of  the  old 
and  new  Testaments?  I do  not  come  on  with  Vertot 
very  fast.  How  many  pieces  should  you  like  me  to  do 
in  the  Solfege  Tuesdays  and  Saturdays,  when  I take 
another  lesson  as  well  as  my  music  lesson?  I wrote 
the  best  part  of  my  letter  yesterday  so  that  I can  tell 
you  that  I have  finished  the  first  volume  of  Vertot. 

“Your  most  affectionate  daughter, 

“ S.  B.  Warner.’ * 

Then  come  the  eleven  year  old  views  and  plans. 

“Dearest  Father. 

“Monday,  the  5th  of  July,  was  a beautiful  day  here, 
and  the  evening  could  not  have  been  more  pretty.  The 
moon  shone,  and  it  was  delightful.  Very  high  rockets 
went  up  from  the  Military  Garden ; I have  never  seen 
higher.  We  went  up  to  Jamaica  Thursday,  and  I 
had  a very  pleasant  visit.  Today  I am  eleven  years 
old.  Don’t  you  think  it  would  be  a good  way  for  me  to 
set  down  all  the  faults  which  I commit  in  the  day,  and 
to  try  not  to  do  them  again  ? Uncle  Thomas  preached 
today  in  Brooklyn . Grandma  has  been  down  this  week, 
and  when  she  was  here,  she  taught  me  to  net. 

“Your  affectionate  daughter, 

“S.  B.  Warner.” 


86 


Susan  Warner 


‘ ‘ My  dearest  and  most  dear  Father. 

“I  hope  you  had  a pleasant  sail,  though  I suspect  it 
was  rather  uncomfortably  hot.  It  was  very  wTarm 
here ; and  I daresay  it  was  more  so  on  board  the  steam- 
boat. Perhaps  you  are  surprised  at  not  seeing  this  in 
French,  and  it  certainly  would  be,  if  it  were  not  that  I 
have  no  dictionary  which  gives  the  English  words  and 
then  the  French  of  them.  I can  do  hardly  anything 
with  Dufief,  and  as  for  Charles  XII,  it  would  not  furnish 
me  with  near  all  the  words  I want. 

“ I daresay  you  have  your  hands  full  of  business ; I 
only  hope  that  you  may  succeed  in  all  of  it.  I shall 
go  to  town  today.  I hope  you  are  well.  We  should  be 
quite  lonesome  if  Grandma  were  not  with  us. 

“ Your  most  affectionate  daughter, 
“Susan  B.  Warner/' 


A Child  Portrait  of  Anna  B.  Warner 
From  a Miniature 


UBHAK* 

OF  THE 

'V?RSITV  OF  ILL'NO  3 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  TALL  GIRL 

This  age  of  photographs  does  not  know  its  riches : I 
have  not  even  a sketch  of  her  in  those  early  days.  But 
I seem  to  remember  her  dimly,  as  she  drove  off  for  her 
music  lessons,  sitting  up  straight  as  an  arrow  in  the 
barouche ; and  three  dresses  I remember  well. 

One  was  worn  when  I must  have  been  three  or  four 
years  old,  and  she  was  going  in  fancy  dress  to  some 
assemblage  of  young  people.  I had  watched  with 
jealous  distrust  the  hairdresser  as  he  arranged  her  hair ; 
in  curls,  I think,  with  all  the  old  machinery  of  tongs  and 
twisted  paper.  And  now,  dressed  and  ready,  she  went 
down  the  stairs,  and  I danced  along  before  her  to  the 
front  door,  waving  my  small  hands,  and  crying  out : 

“My  sister!  my  sister!  my  sister!  ” 

I have  not  the  least  recollection  of  her  face,  but  the 
dress  was  kept  until  later  years.  A scarlet  satin 
bodice  laced  with  scarlet  cord  • a clear  white  muslin 
skirt  with  rows  of  inch-wide  scarlet  satin  ribband, 
spacing  it  off  round  the  bottom : scarlet  satin  slippers, 
white  silk  stockings,  and  I believe  a wreath  of  green 
leaves  and  scarlet  flowers. 

The  next  picture  is  of  a tall,  slim  girl  at  the  home 
dinner  table,  clad  in  a sort  of  diaphanous  India  muslin  \ 
white,  but  just  toned  with  bluish  lavender,  and  spotted 
over  with  small  pale  lavender  daisies.  Short  sleeves, 

87 


88 


Susan  Warner 


and  the  neck  with  its  long  throat,  bare.  It  seems  to 
me  they  were  calling  her  “ Miss-in -her-teens.  ” 

One  other  dress  I remember  her  in;  a soft  Quaker 
brown  Silk:  she  standing  wTith  a quiet,  dignified  poise 
that  I can  see  now.  But  she  must  have  been  almost 
grown  up  then,  for  the  brown  skirt  just  cleared  her 
instep,  leaving  the  white  stockings  and  pretty  bronze 
slippers  in  full  view. 

Those  slippers  won  my  deepest  admiration.  But 
wThen  Aunt  Fanny  bought  me  also  a little  pair,  my 
sister  strongly  disapproved:  in  those  days  she  never 
wished  me  to  have  anything  like  her  things;  always 
liking  best  to  stand  apart  and  unapproachable.  Once 
she  confessed  that  there  was  nothing  she  desired  so 
much,  as  to  be  “ odd.”  Happily  for  her,  our  dear  Aunt 
Fanny  was  not  only  loving,  but  wise ; and  a little  clear- 
sighted counsel,  a touch  of  wholesome  ridicule  now  and 
then,  kept  all  these  youthful  airs  within  becoming 
limits. 

She  was  a bit  of  a Sybarite  by  nature ; liking  ease  and 
warmth  and  bright  colours  (especially  red,  which  she 
was  fond  of  wearing)  and  dainty  fare ; though  she  was 
a very  small  eater.  Quite  ready  always  to  use  Mr. 
Hale’s  prescription  for  a long  life,  and  do  nothing  her- 
self that  she  could  get  some  one  else  to  do  for  her.  Not 
that  she  might  sit  in  idleness,  however;  but  to  read, 
and  muse,  and  tend  her  imagination. 

Her  particular  delight  was  to  have  a low  seat  at  the 
comer  of  the  hearth  and  read  by  firelight;  but  all  her 
life  long  she  liked  to  have  some  one  else  keep  up  the 
fire.  In  the  morning  she  wanted  to  wait  in  bed  till 
the  maid  called  her;  and  would  fain  have  had  this 
functionary  put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings,  but  our 
wise  Aunt  Fanny  negatived  that. 


The  Tall  Girl 


89 


Christmas  morning,  with  both  of  us  awake  in  the 
gray  dawn,  she  always  lay  still  and  sent  me  to  fetch 
the  stockings,  (in  later  years  the  bags)  from  where 
they  hung.  Nothing  so  prosaic  as  the  blaze  of  gas- 
light over  a Christmas  tree,  ever  came  into  our  young 
lives.  And  as  to  choosing  our  own  presents! — Christ- 
mas would  have  ceased  to  be  Christmas. 

So  in  the  darkness,  with  the  biggest  and  fullest 
stocking  laid  upon  her  bed,  she  would  fumble  and 
feel  and  guess;  spinning  out  the  delightful  mystery. 
What  could  these  sharp  comers  be? — And  was  this 
solid  package  all  books?  Searching  further  as  the 
daylight  came  on;  trying  to  read  titles,  imagining 
colours.  Lying  back  then  again  in  bed  to  muse  and 
wonder.  Once  when  a work  of  Mrs.  Sherwood’s  was 
in  the  bag,  three  rather  thick  small  volumes,  she 
spelled  out  the  strange  name,  and  then  lay  still,  saying 
over  and  over  to  herself: 

“Roxobel — Roxobel — Roxobel.  ” 

Another  year,  when  I found  the  bag  very  heavy, 
it  held  the  Novels  and  Tales  of  Maria  Edgeworth : the 
old  edition  in  nine  light  blue  volumes ; looking  brown  in 
the  dusky  morning,  and  coming  out  blue  as  a glad 
surprise.  I have  heard  her  say  that  she  put  her  head 
down  then  with  a sense  of  unbelievable  riches.  Nine 
volumes  of  unknown  stories ! 

For  other  gifts,  at  Christmas,  she  had  a supreme 
contempt.  Once  when  some  costly  lace  ventured  in, 
my  sister  scarcely  gave  it  a glance.  Only  books  were 
worthy  to  appear  on  such  a day. 

She  was  passionately  fond  of  stories:  identifying 
herself  with  the  characters  in  a way  that  must  have 
been  often  more  pain  than  pleasure,  and  taking  much 
to  heart  the  least  seeming  blemish  in  some  favourite 


90 


Susan  Warner 


personage.  If  the  thought  once  sprung  up,  that  So 
and  So  should  have  done  (or  not  have  done)  this  or 
that,  she  would  brood  over  the  question  for  hours  and 
days:  thinking,  thinking,  perfectly  absorbed ; and  glad 
or  distressed,  according  to  the  final  decision. 

“Well,  who  is  it  now?”  Aunt  Fanny  would  say  to 
her,  invading  one  of  these  brown  studies.  I forget 
how  long  it  took  her  to  decide  whether  Henry  Morton 
(in  Old  Mortality)  did,  or  did  not,  on  one  occasion  clip 
the  truth.  What  would  have  become  of  her  among  the 
novels  of  to-day,  where  the  chief  claim  of  heroes  and 
heroines  seems  to  be,  that  they  are  such  charming 
types  of  evil;  such  free  exponents  thereof?  “So  de- 
lightfully unregenerate,”  as  someone  has  said. 

Naturally  my  father  was  unwilling  to  have  her 
read  many  stories:  such  dreaming  was  not  good:  and 
it  was  perhaps  to  make  up  for  much  restriction,  as  well 
as  to  furnish  safe  fuel  for  the  imagination  fires,  that 
he  began  the  evening  readings  which  for  years  were 
our  delight.  I was  a small  child  then;  so  small  that 
I remember  going  to  sleep  on  the  hearth  rug  while 
the  reading  was  in  progress ; but  of  course  I soon  grew 
up  to  it;  and  the  pleasure  ran  on  through  many 
years. 

Some  of  Scott’s  novels  were  the  first  books  read,  I 
think,  but  a great  variety  followed.  Shakespeare  and 
Dickens,  Scott’s  poems,  Paradise  Lost,  Miss  Edgeworth, 
Boswell’s  Johnson,  and  many  another  volume,  we 
knew  first  with  the  added  charm  of  my  dear  Father’s 
voice  and  comments. 

Between  readings,  we  were  not  to  touch  the  work 
then  in  hand;  but  it  tells  of  my  sister’s  high  honour, 
that  one  day — on  fire  still  from  last  night’s  chapters 
— she  asked  my  father  if  she  might  just  “open” 


The  Tall  Girl  91 

“Waverly,  ” to  see  with  her  own  eyes  the  name  of 
Flora  Mclvor. 

How  my  father  must  have  triumphed  over  the  trust 
he  had  in  her!  Once,  years  after  that,  a friend  brought 
to  our  house  a copy  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  and  coaxed 
my  father  to  read  it ; he  had  an  inborn  distaste  for  all 
French  novels.  But  finding  in  this  one  some  marvel- 
lously fine  descriptions,  historical  and  other,  he  wished 
my  sister  to  read  them,  but  not  the  whole  book. 
Marking  with  his  pencil  certain  chapters  and  pages, 
he  simply  bade  her  keep  within  those  limits ; and  then 
put  the  volume  in  her  hands,  absolutely  sure  of  her 
loyalty  and  truth.  Small  threads  seem  to  have  been 
left  out  from  the  web  of  her  character;  and  the  stuff 
ran  clear  and  even  from  end  to  end.  With  life  and 
heavenly  grace  working  fine  embroidery  as  the  years 
went  by. 

She  was  a very  tall  girl,  with  long  neck  and  sloping 
shoulders;  much  too  tall  and  slender  for  her  age  and 
strength,  and  with  always  a book  in  her  hand:  reading, 
musing,  with  a perfectly  absorbed  face,  and  ears  re- 
gardless of  calls,  demands,  and  questions.  Whatever 
the  book  might  be,  she  was  never  ready  to  lay  it  down. 
The  carriage  waited  for  her,  breakfast  began  without 
her.  But  no  such  trifles  disturbed  her  mind,  or  indeed 
I think  found  their  way  far  into  her  thoughts ; the  latest 
page  of  her  beloved  book  held  her  fast  in  dreamland.  A 
happy  dreamland,  I was  going  to  say;  but  truly  that 
was  only  when  the  characters  behaved  themselves  as  she 
thought  they  ought  to  do. 

The  earliest  journals  I have  found,  begin  when  she 
was  twelve  years  old;  and  some  of  the  small  entries 
tell  a good  deal.  They  shew  her  very  much  at-will 
life;  her  estimate  of  herself;  with  an  intelligent,  easy 


92 


Susan  Warner 


use  of  English,  and  a choice  of  good  words,  that  speak 
for  the  atmosphere  in  which  she  lived. 

“ New  York , April  ijth.  I have  had  chills  and  fever 

and  feel  quite  weak  today,  though  better  than  I have 
been.  Aunty  and  Grandma  wanting  me  to  lie  dowm, 
I did  so,  but  did  not  get  asleep.  It  is  very  seldom  that 
I can  get  asleep  in  the  daytime.  Afterwards  we  took 
a ride  round  Washington  Square,  and  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  city,  and  then  home.  It  is  a delightful  day, 
and  very  warm.  I feel  better  than  I did  early  this 
morning,  and  have  eaten  quite  a hearty  dinner  of 
mutton  and  currant  jelly,  such  as  it  is.  I shall  not  be 
able  to  go  to  my  lesson  tomorrow,  but  I must  begin 
again  on  Monday.” 

“ April  14th.  I have  not  been  on  my  peregrinations 
today,  as  I was  not  quite  strong  enough,  so  I have 
lost  three  lessons.  Indeed  I have  only  taken  one  lesson 
this  week.  I shall  not  get  through  in  a year  at  this 
rate.  We  have  taken  another  ride  today  up  as  far  as 
the  old  State  prison,  and  then  through  Bond  street  into 
the  Bowery,  down  which  we  came  home.  I have  read 
today  in  Entertaining  Knowledge”  (the  charming 
English  Library  of  E.  K.)  “and  in  that  only,  as  yet,  I 
believe.  I have  played  today  a reasonable,  or  rather 
unreasonable  quantity  with  the  Ark,  and  so  forth.  I 
am  none  the  better  for  it,  though  I hope  not  much  the 
wTorse.” 

“ April  18th.  Yesterday  I spent  pretty  idly,  for  I 
occupied  some  time  in  making  a doll’s  cape,  and  did 
very  little  which  was  useful.  I did  not  play  on  the 
piano  an  hour,  nor  did  I do  any  of  my  lessons.  Today 
I have  not  been  much  better  than  yesterday,  though  I 
have  exercised  and  sewed  some  on  my  muslin,  and  read 
a little  in  Entertaining  Knowledge.  Father  and  Aunty 


The  Tall  Girl 


93 


would  be  glad  if  I would  give  up  playing  sedentary 
plays  altogether;  he  has  prohibited  my  playing  them 
for  these  two  or  three  days  past;  it  is  not  improbable 
that  I am  the  better  for  it.” 

Twelve  years  old,  could  concede  at  least  possible 
wisdom  to  forty-five,  in  those  days. 

“ 2 ist . Must  I say  again  that  I did  nothing  worth 
mentioning  yesterday?  I am  afraid  the  fact  is  so; 
at  least  I cannot  call  to  mind  anything  very  useful.  I 
did  just  what  I have  done  for  several  days  past.  I 
played  on  the  piano,  played  nonsense  some,  read  some, 
played  battledore  and  shuttlecock,  and  after  dinner  had 
begun  to  tell  stories,  when  Grandma  came  home,  and  by 
telling  about  the  transactions  at  Jamaica  put  the  story 
out  of  my  head.  I went  to  Mr.  Metz’s  this  morning, 
but  not  to  Mme.  Jumel’s.  This  afternoon  I have  been 
reading  aloud  a little  in  Hume.” 

The  story  of  the  next  Sunday  ends  with  reflections. 
“Afterwards  I glanced  a little  at  Memoirs  of  Leigh 
Richmond.  After  dinner  I looked  at  Entertaining 
Knowledge  a little  while,  and  then  cut  some  little  sofas 
and  chairs  out  of  card.  Then  I read  three  chapters  in 
the  Bible.  I find  that  I have  spent  a most  unprofitable 
week,  and  as  unprofitable  a Sunday.  The  more  shame 
for  me.  I am  now  old  enough  to  do  better.” 

“ April  26th.  Yesterday  I had  no  lesson  to  go  to  in 
the  morning,  so  I had  plenty  of  time  to  study,  but  in- 
stead of  that,  lazy  thing  that  I was,  I put  it  off  till  to- 
day, and  as  the  books  are  all  packed  up,  and  as  I have 
not  learnt  any  lessons,  I cannot  go  to  Mme.  Jumel’s  this 
afternoon.  I went  to  Mr.  Metz’s  this  morning.  When 
I got  home  I sewed  and  painted  till  dinner,  after  which 
I painted  a little  more,  and  then  told  stories,  I don’t 
know  how  long.” 


94 


Susan  Warner 


“I  played  psalm  times  on  my  new  piano,  read  some 
in  the  ‘Lady  of  the  Manor,’  but  did  not  spend  the  Sun- 
day as  well  as  it  might  have  been.” 

Out  of  town.  “What  a lazy  girl  I am.  I have 
neglected  to  write  ever  since  Wednesday.” 

‘ ‘ I have  neglected  to  write  ever  since  Friday.  Why  is 
this?  When  I was  in  town  I used  to  feel  pleasure  in 
writing  my  journal,  instead  of  putting  if  off  from  day  to 
day.  Yesterday  morning  I read  the  ‘Lady  of  the 
Manor’  till  I cried  over  it.  Then  I went  to  Aunty’s 
room  and  read  some  of  Father’s  poetry,  and  had  quite 
a long  talk. 

‘ ‘ I went  out  with  Father  and  Annie.  In  our  way  wre 
got  some  flowers,  and  when  we  came  in,  we  dressed  our 
heads  with  them.  Anna’s  flowers  stuck  out  on  all  sides 
of  her  head.” 

‘ ‘ I have  played  on  the  piano  a little  today,  and  have 
told  stories  a great  deal.  I have  sewed  also,  and  have 
drawn  a little  figure  much  to  my  liking.  Some  of  my 
occupations  are  very  insignificant,  and  I have  told 
stories  and  sewed  such  a large  portion  of  this  day,  that 
the  history  of  the  other  part  takes  up  very  little  space.” 
If  I remember  right,  these  stories  were  sometimes 
fairy  tales  retold  for  my  benefit,  and  probably  some- 
times original,  told  for  the  first  time, — but  I am  not 
sure  of  that. 

“ Sunday.  Today  I have  read  in  Pilgrim’s  Progress, 
and  in  Q.  Q.,  and  in  ‘The  Lady  of  the  Manor,’  I have 
also  since  dinner  taken  a nap.  It  now  wants  a quarter 
of  six,  and  yet  I have  not  read  one  word  in  my  Bible 
today.  It  is  a shame,  and  yet  last  Sunday  was  not 
much  better,  but  I will  not  do  so  next  Sunday  if  I live.” 
11  Tuesday.  This  morning  I washed  and  wiped  the 
tea  things,  sewed,  and  began  to  make  a pincushion  for 


The  Tall  Girl 


95 


Aunt  Fanny,  practised  some,  and  read  part  of  my  20 
pages  of  Rollin.  I have  painted  some  also.  Father 
has  not  come  home.  What  would  I not  give  if  he  were 
here  to  read  Rob  Roy  to  us.” 

“ Friday . I have  been  for  these  one  or  two  days 
past  occupied  almost  constantly  by  making  pincushions, 
except  when  I was  reading  Rollin  or  playing  on  the 
piano,  and  even  those  two  things  have  been  somewhat 
neglected.” 

“ Tuesday . After  breakfast  I made  my  bed,  then 
from  42  minutes  after  8,  to  half  past  9,  sewed. 
Watched  the  little  bird  on  her  nest  till  25  minutes  past 
10.  From  half  past  10  till  25  minutes  past  11,  played 
on  the  piano.  Did  nothing  very  particular  till  8 min- 
utes past  1,  at  which  time  I sat  down  to  read  Rollin, 
but  I do  not  know  when  I left  off.  From  4 to  10 
minutes  past  5,  I painted.” 

“ Saturday . This  morning  I lay  so  long  in  bed  that  I 
had  to  eat  breakfast  alone,  they  having  finished.” 
“Yesterday  I wrote  two  notes,  one  to  Miss  Julia 
Ward,  and  the  other  to  Miss  Mary  Stephens,  inviting 
them  to  spend  my  birthday  with  me.  Little  Anna  was 
not  quite  well  last  evening.” 

“July  10th.  Tomorrow  is  the  long  expected  day; 
and  perhaps  no  one  will  be  here.  It  is  not  good 
weather  today,  and  that  may  prevent  Sarah  from  com- 
ing. However  if  I am  disappointed  I must  bear  it  as 
well  as  I can.” 

“July  14th.  My  birthday  came  and  went,  but 
brought  no  visitors  with  it.  Mary  Stephens  wrote  me 
a note  to  say  she  could  not  come  as  they  were  going  out 
of  town.  Miss  Ward  sent  me  no  answer  at  all,  and  so 
my  birthday  passed  like  any  other  day,  except  that 
I had  four  pretty  presents.  Father’s  was  a very  use- 


g6 


Susan  Warner 


ful  and  pleasing  book,  Aunt  Fanny  presented  me  with 
a very  pretty  pair  of  blue  bead  bracelets,  with  very  neat 
clasps;  Grandma  gave  me  a pair  of  scissors,  a pair  of 
compasses,  and  a pretty  little  half  foot  ivory  rule,  which 
articles  used  to  belong  to  my  Grandfather  Bartlett. 
And  Annie  gave  me  a straw  colored  belt.  Father 
brought  home  two  books,  and  gave  me  the  choice  of 
them.  One  was  Guy’s  Pocket  Cyclopedia,  the  other, 
Sports  & Pastimes  of  the  People  of  England.  At 
first  I thought  the  latter  the  most  amusing,  and  chose 
it,  but  before  evening  I found  out  that  it  was  of  no  use, 
and  that  after  I had  read  it  once,  it  would  not  be  good 
for  much  except  amusing  visitors.  Aunt  Fanny  found 
out  that  I did  not  much  like  it,  so  she  spoke  to  Father, 
and  I changed  it  for  the  other,  which  I like  very  much. 
But  to  crown  all,  I gave  Aunt  Fanny  a beautiful  locket, 
which  is  entirely  my  own  present  to  her : she  means  it  to 
contain  the  hair  of  Uncle  George  and  Uncle  Jason.” 

11  July  2 ist.  A few  days  ago  my  dear  Father  was 
quite  sick,  and  Aunt  Fanny  was  very  much  troubled 
about  him.  He  is  now  however  pretty  well,  and  I hope 
he  will  continue  so.  Yesterday  afternoon  we  went  to 
drink  tea  at  Mr.  Lot’s.  We  spent  perhaps,  as  pleasant 
an  afternoon  as  could  have  been  expected.” 

“ July  jo.  I occupied  the  greater  part  of  the  morn- 
ing in  pounding  and  grinding  com  for  my  chickens.  I 
have  not  practised  any  today  nor  read  Rollin,  but  I 
have  written  some  translation.” 

“ August  2nd.  I have  been  sewing  more  than  usual 
today.  I am  going  to  finish  a patchwork  counter- 
pane which  my  mother  began  many  years  ago.  There 
is  a great  deal  to  be  done  to  it,  but  I do  not  despair  of 
finishing  it  in  a year  at  least,  unless  mv  liking  for  it 
cools  very  much.” 


The  Tall  Girl 


97 


“Sept.  i.  Yesterday  was  Anna’s  birthaay,  and  a 
happy  one  it  was.  She  had  expected  nothing,  and  in 
consequence,  was  both  surprised  and  pleased  by  her 
presents.  Grandma  first  gave  her  the  box  that  Cousin 
Lewis  bought  for  her,  and  she  would  I daresay  have 
been  perfectly  contented,  had  she  received  nothing 
else.  After  breakfast  Grandma  presented  her  with  the 
doll,  and  she  was  delighted ; but  when  I brought  down 
the  bedstead,  the  child  was  nearly  overcome,  and  she 
almost  cried.  I was  somewhat  excited  myself.” 

A little  high  post  bedstead,  painted  green,  and  made 
by  my  father’s  own  hands.  Curtains  of  yellow  barege, 
white  dimity  valence;  bolster  and  pillows,  sheets, 
pillow  cases,  and  quilt,  with  a little  “cat-tail”  bed;  all 
of  which  were  my  sister’s  gift.  How  she  had  worked 
to  make  them! — And  each  thing  was  perfectly  well 
made. 

“Sep.  yth.  A few  days  ago  Father  went  down  to 
Brooklyn  and  got  a nice  plank,  for  which  he  had  made 
supports,  and  put  it  up  in  the  garret,  and  it  is  a nice 
horse.  The  garret  is  quite  a playroom.  We  have  now 
got  there,  a swing,  horse,  and  hook  and  ring,  all  of  his 
making.  There  is  also  a jumping  rope  which  hangs  up 
there.  Anna  goes  down  to  the  bam  for  eggs  every  day, 
and  sometimes  twice  a day,  and  she  gets  a good  many. 
Father  has  finished  Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson,  and  is 
now  reading  aloud  “The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  under 
Difficulties.” 

A three  months’  gap  follows.  Under  Dec.  26th  she 

writes. 

“It  has  been  a very  insignificant  day.  Really,  my 
journal  is  a collection  of  nothings.  I go  out  or  I come 
in,  one  day  is  fair  and  another  foul ; it  is  a great  cry  and 
little  wool;  as  at  the  shearing  of  pigs.” 


7 


98 


Susan  Warner 


Very  dear  to  me  are  the  here  and  there  notices  of  me. 
the  bits  of  special  intercourse. 

“ Dec.  30th.  All  of  us  staid  at  home  today.  Father 
did  not  like  to  walk  so  far,  with  his  lame  knee,  and  Anna 
was  hardly  well  enough,  so  Aunt  Fanny  staid  with  her, 
and  would  have  done  so  even  if  Father  and  I had  gone. 
I read  2 chapters  in  my  Bible  today.  I went  up- 
stairs into  Aunty’s  room  after  dinner,  where  Anna  was 
lying  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  for  she  did  not  come  down 
to  dinner.  Then  I brought  my  little  keepsakes,  and 
she  got  hers.  I fixed  and  gave  her  some  tea  and  toast, 
which  Kitty  brought  up  after  dinner,  and  when  she  got 
up  I dressed  her.” 

It  is  such  a “shadow of  coming  events.”  Ah,  my  love, 
how  many  headaches  marked  the  years  that  followed ! — 
how  many  cups  of  tea  from  your  dear  hands  w^ere  to 
play  their  part ! And  I know  those  early  ones  were  per- 
fect, as  well  as  if  I could  remember  them.  She  did 
nothing  half  way. 

The  day  ends  with  a novelty. 

“I  learnt  some  catechism  this  evening.” — I did  not 
know  she  had  ever  done  that.  The  next  day’s  de- 
scription suits  any  day,  and  I might  well  say  any 
people. 

“Dec.  31.  Miss  Eliza  Bogert  drank  tea  with  us. 
The  conversation  ran  part  of  the  time  upon  braces 
to  keep  the  shoulders  back,  moccasins,  plumb  cake, 
the  sayings  of  little  Augusta  Lawrence,  and  those  of 
Anna,  and  so  forth.” 

“Jan  1.  We  have  had  a nice  time  to-day.  This 
morning  we  found  in  the  basket,  two  black  fur  mufflers, 
one  for  Anna,  and  the  other  for  me,  from  Grandma; 
Goldsmith’s  England  for  me  and  Evening  Entertain- 
ments for  Anna  from  father;  and  a nice  little  basket 


The  Tall  Girl 


99 


for  me  and  ‘Compliments  of  the  Season’  ” (an  annual) 
“ for  Anna,  from  Aunt  Fanny.  After  breakfast  we  gave 
Aunty  her  presents.  Father  first  gave  her  the  work- 
table, Anna  then,  the  cards,  card  case,  and  plate,  and 
lastly  I presented  her  with  the  cloth.  After  a while 
I dressed  and  went  into  the  parlour.  I took  my  little 
tablet  and  put  down  the  names  of  all  the  gentlemen 
that  called ; but  there  were  very  few,  for  it  has  been  a 
rainy  day.” 

‘ 1 Jan.  2nd.  My  cold  is  not  very  much  better.  How- 
ever I dressed  and  went  into  the  parlour.  Miss  Wick- 
ham from  Jamaica  called  to  see  Grandma,  and  Miss 
Ward  with  Miss  Julia  Ward  and  Miss  Louisa,  her 
younger  sister.  Miss  Julia  and  I seated  ourselves  on 
the  couch,  and  talked  away  in  fine  style.  Our  subjects 
were  practising,  drawing,  my  invitation  of  last  summer, 
and  other  things.  I believe  I will  put  down  some  part 
of  our  conversation,  as  well  as  I can  remember  it,  though 
I may  not  get  the  very  words  that  were  used. 

Miss  Julia.  ‘ Is  yours  a fine  piano  ? ’ 

5.  ‘Not  particularly  fine,  but  I like  it  very  well.’ 
Miss  J.  ‘Are  you  fond  of  music?  ’ 

5.  ‘ I don’t  love  to  practise.  ’ 

Miss  J.  ‘I  have  a grand  piano  and  that  makes 
practising  somewhat  pleasanter.  How  long  have  you 
taken  lessons  ? ’ 

5.  ‘It  is  three  years  this  last  fall,  since  I began  to 
learn,  but  I have  lost  a good  many  lessons,  and  all  last 
summer  I took  but  one  lesson.’ 

Miss  J.  ‘You  must  play  quite  well.’ 

5.  ‘O  no  I don’t.  How  long  have  you  learned?  ’ 
Miss  J.  ‘Five  or  six  years.’ 

5.  ‘O  you  must  be  quite  a grand  performer.’ 

Miss  J . ‘No  I am  not.  Mr.  Metz  is  your  teacher?  ’ 


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Susan  Warner 


5.  ‘Yes,  old  Mr.  Metz.  Raymond  Metz,  not  Julius 
Metz.  Who  teaches  you  ? ’ 

Miss  J.  ‘Mr.  B. Do  you  draw?  ’ 

5.  ‘I  have  never  learned.’ 

Miss  J.  ‘But  you  draw?’ 

5.  ‘Yes,  some  little  things  just  to  please  myself, 
but  I have  never  learned.’ 

Miss  J.  ‘O  well  let  me  see  some  of  them.  Anna, 
shew  me  some  of  your  sister’s  drawings.’ 

“Away  went  Anna,  and  got  my  ‘costumes’;  but  as 
she  was  going  I happened  to  cough. 

Miss  J . ‘The  cough  came  just  as  you  were  going  to 
tell  her  not  to  get  them.  O they  are  beautiful,  so  well 
shaded,  did  you  draw  them?  ’ 

5.  ‘Yes,  I drew  them  by  eye.’ 

Miss  J . ‘Anna,  have  you  nothing  more?  ’ 

Anna.  ‘ There  is  one  thing  more.’ 

Miss  J.  ‘0  go  and  bring  it!’ 

S.  ‘There  is  nothing  more.  Anna,  what  do  you 
mean  ? ’ 

Anna.  ‘Yes  there  is.’ 

5.  ‘No,  Anna  don’t  you  get  it!  There  is  nothing 
more.  I never  drew  anything  even  as  well  as  those  are 
done.’ 

MissJ.  ‘Yes,  bring  it,  Anna.’ 

“And  away  she  went  to  be  sure,  and  soon  returned 
with  a little  box  of  paltry  card  babies.  Then  there  was 
some  little  laughing  and  pulling,  and  Miss  Julia  praised 
them  up  so  much,  and  called  them  ‘specimens  of  un- 
taught genius,’  or  something  like  it,  but  at  last  they 
went  away.  These  scraps  of  talk  are  not  quite  correct, 
nor  in  their  exact  order,  but  something  to  that  purpose 
was  said.” 

The  point  of  interest  in  the  whole  thing  is,  that  of  the 


The  Tall  Girl 


IOI 


two  girls  one  was  afterwards  to  write  “The  Battle 
Hymn  of  the  Republic,”  and  the  other  “The  Wide, 
Wide  World.” 

“ Jan.  iyth.  I got  my  Latin  lesson  this  morning,  but 
did  nothing  else  before  dinner.  Aunty  and  Grandma 
begged  me  so  much  to  go  out  with  them,  that  at  last  I 
consented.  We  went  up  to  Bond  Street  to  see  Miss 
Ward  and  Mrs.  Francis.  We  found  that  the  latter 
was  sick,  but  we  went  into  the  parlour  to  warm  our- 
selves, for  it  was  very  cold.  Presently  Miss  Ward 
came  in,  and  she  sent  up  for  the  young  ladies.  Miss 
Julia  played  a piece  for  us,  and  I had  to  do  the  same 
thing.  Miss  Ward  shewed  us  some  of  the  rooms, 
which  are  beautiful.” 

“Last  night,  or  rather  this  morning,  for  I suspect  it 
was  after  4 o’clock,  I had  a chill,  and  not  a very  slight 
one,  for  the  first.  I did  not  get  up  till  some  time  after 
breakfast,  and  I then  went  into  Aunty’s  room,  where  I 
have  been  all  day.  Father  gave  me  permission  to  read 
whatever  I pleased,  so  I have  read  in  Guy  Mannering, 
a good  part  of  the  day.” 

11  April  30th.  I have  been  reading  in  Entertaining 
Knowledge,  a part  of  it  which  I never  read  before ; the 
revolution  of  1830,  in  which  I am  much  interested.” 

“May  3d.  Miss  Ward  called  today,  and  invited 
Grandma  to  come  to  her  house  to  dine,  and  the  rest  of 
us  to  come  in  the  evening  to  drink  tea,  and  she  asked 
me  to  bring  my  notes  with  me,  as  I cannot  play  without 
them. 

“When  we  arrived,  nobody  had  come,  except  our- 
selves and  Grandma,  and  it  was  some  time  before  they 
did  come.  I took  my  piece  of  music,  but  when  the 
company  came,  I would  not  play.  I hid  my  piece 
behind  some  books  on  the  pier  table,  and  there  it 


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Susan  Warner 


remained  until  we  went  home.  I did  not  have  a 
very  pleasant  evening ; I hope  I shall  not  be  caught  in 
such  a scrape  again.” 

“ May  yth.  Mr.  Bagioli  came  today  and  I had  my 
lesson.  I finished  my  Italian  also,  and  in  the  afternoon 
Mr.  Da  Ponte  came  and  Father  and  I had  our  lesson.” 

“ May  1 6th.  I took  my  singing  lesson  today,  and 
with  Anna  blanched  some  almonds  which  Aunty  gave 
us.  This  afternoon  Anna  and  I packed  the  baskets 
which  Grandma  gave  us,  with  a variety  of  things  that 
we  wish  to  carry  to  West  Point,  whither  we  expected 
to  go  tomorrow,  but  I don’t  know  but  we  shall  have  to 
defer  it  until  the  next  day,  because  it  rains,  and  will 
very  likely  be  cloudy  tomorrow.” 


CHAPTER  IX 


YOUNG  FAIRYLAND 

There  are  times  of  life  when  a few  years’  difference 
in  age  counts  for  much:  and  so  when  I was  a child,  my 
sister  and  I had  little  to  do  with  each  other,  except  in 
a few  special  ways. 

In  town,  while  I was  like  a small  shadow  at  Aunt 
Fanny’s  side,  she  sat  apart  with  her  books  or  her  dreams : 
in  the  country,  you  could  not  keep  me  in  the  house — 
you  could  hardly  get  her  out  of  it.  I picked  flowers, 
gathered  up  snail  shells,  hunted  for  hens’  nests,  and 
helped  stop  the  drove  of  horses  racing  from  the  pasture : 
she  studied  Italian,  wrought  at  her  lace  work,  read  what 
she  could  find ; invented  elaborate  cyphers  for  use  among 
the  youngsters,  and  painted  card  babies. 

Long  before  the  public  coming  of  paper  dolls,  card 
babies  were  well  known  at  our  house.  Small  bits  of 
stiff  paper  or  card  were  cut  into  shape,  and  invested 
with  the  proper  amount  of  painted  eyes,  hair  and 
clothing.  No  variety  wardrobe  indeed ; they  were  but 
poor  little  heathen,  wearing  their  one  dress  till  it  fell 
to  pieces.  The  very  early  ones  were  perhaps  not  more 
than  one  inch  or  so  long;  and  there  were  also  small 
painted  card  chairs  and  tables  and  bedsteads,  cut  and 
bent  into  shape  for  the  card  babies’  use.  An  old 
mahogany  footstool  turned  on  its  side,  made  a fairly 
good  and  very  airy  house.  In  playing  with  these,  I 

103 


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Susan  Warner 


was  allowed  to  “assist,  ” rather  in  the  French  than  the 
English  sense ; and  probably  just  as  a help  to  my  sister’s 
imagination.  I seem  to  remember  that  my  suggestions 
were  often  promptly  negatived,  being  quite  too  crude 
and  humdrum.  The  little  figures  were  but  “card 
babies”  to  me;  but  to  her,  no  doubt,  Grandees  in  dis- 
guise. 

Then  when  I was  somewhat  older,  we  used  to  “talk 
stories”:  sometimes  together  at  home,  but  chiefly  in 
our  summer  visits  to  the  beloved  old  Canaan  house 
where  my  grandfather  lived,  and  where  we  often  had 
two  cousins  to  help  us. 

There  in  one  comer  of  the  big  “ living-room  ’ ’-kitchen 
(almost  line  for  line  like  Whittier’s  own),  when  the 
spinning-wheel  buzzed  and  hummed,  and  pine  knots 
blazed  up  the  wide  chimney;  we  flitted  away  into 
dreamland.  The  four  young  heads  drawn  very  close 
together,  the  young  spirits  unconscious  of  all  work-a-day 
things.  Until  somebody  would  speak  the  unwelcome 
words : 

“Children,  you  must  go  to  bed,” — and  the  silken, 
golden,  impossible  visions,  were  folded  away  for  that 
night. 

What  the  stories  were  that  we  talked,  I wish  I could 
tell.  I only  know  that  they  were  unending,  like  true 
Arabian  Nights;  stretching  on  from  week  to  week, 
and  sometimes  I think  from  year  to  year.  They  were 
liberally  sprinkled  with  talismans  of  the  most  power- 
fully convenient  and  inconvenient  sorts,  and  the 
younger  children  used  to  charge  “our  eldest”  with  keep- 
ing for  herself  certain  particular  charms  which  like 
a master  key  dominated  the  rest.  So  that  if  we  had  her 
hero  in  what  seemed  a tight  place,  he  had  but  to  step 
on  his  carpet  of  rapid  transit — and  we  were  left  gazing. 


s Old  House  at  “ Queechy  ” 
Pencil  Drawing  by  Anna  B.  Warner 


UBRAhV 

OF  THE 

of  VJ-  - 5 


Young  Fairyland  105 

“Now  that’s  not  fair,”  my  oldest  cousin  would  say, 
bringing  down  his  hand  hard. 

In  other  ways,  my  sister  was  quite  impartial.  She 
drew  up  long  lists  of  names  and  nations,  from  which  we 
chose  in  turn  for  our  own  private  lists ; and  these  rights 
of  use  were  strictly  maintained.  But  she  was  suspected 
of  studying  up  the  story  through  the  day ; laying  plots 
and  contriving  situations ; while  one  of  us  was  at  school, 
and  the  two  small  ones  were  racing  about  in  the  open 
air;  and  I fancy  it  was  true.  Certainly  hers  was  always 
the  ruling  hand ; hers  was  the  firm  interference  with  all 
weak  plans,  the  choice  between  situations;  the  general 
casting  vote.  For  to  her  the  dangers  were  real  and 
critical ; the  people  so  present  and  alive,  that  it  was  of 
the  utmost  importance  they  should  say  and  do  the 
right  thing,  and  marry  the  right  person ; and  nothing 
could  make  this  sure,  but  the  keeping  in  her  own 
hand  the  ring  that  made  invisible,  and  such  like  trifles. 

The  stories  have  vanished  into  thin  air.  But  the 
firelight,  the  wheel,  the  murmur  of  distant  older  tongues 
and  the  four  young  heads  bent  low  in  eager  council ; — 
all  this  comes  vividly  back  across  the  colours  and 
changes  of  so  many  greater  things,  distinct  and  fair. 
And  the  conjuror’s  bag  of  wealth  was  always  at  hand, 
in  that  comer.  “Silver  was  nothing  accounted  of 
in  the  days  of  Solomon” — wrote  the  old  Chronicler. 

We  might  protest,  but  we  never  tried  to  depose 
our  dear  “eldest”  from  her  place:  there  was  never  any 
collision.  She  was  leader,  week  day  evenings  and 
Sunday  afternoons. 

I wonder  if  any  children  do  in  these  days  what  we 
did  then  ? For  the  first  day  of  the  week,  in  those  sum- 
mer times  at  Canaan,  was  most  markedly  “set  apart.” 

Of  course  in  the  morning  we  always  went  to  Church ; 


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Susan  Warner 


walking  one  way  and  driving  the  other,  when  there 
were  more  of  us  than  the  wagon  would  hold.  And 
sometimes  we  stayed  through  the  “intermission”  to 
afternoon  service,  but  sometimes  not : going  home  for  an 
early  dinner,  and  then  away  to  the  fields,  for  a “ service  ’ ’ 
of  our  own;  my  sister  the  leader,  and  we  following 
joyously  in  her  train. 

It  was  like  young  hearts  to  get  in  a festive  touch 
then,  which  had  been  quite  lacking  in  the  morning; 
and  so  we  always  dressed  up  for  the  occasion.  In- 
stead of  hats  and  sunbonnets,  we  decked  ourselves  in 
supposed  Eastern  fashion,  as  became  those  who  had 
talked  fairy  tales  all  the  week.  And  as  our  own  re- 
sources were  but  scanty,  we  levied  on  the  older  folk ; 
laying  hands  on  the  gayest  shawls,  scarfs,  and  veils 
that  could  be  found.  There  was  a small  palm  leaf 
shawl  generally  worn  by  my  youngest  cousin;  while 
another,  deep  orange  in  colour,  and  with  a narrow  palm 
leaf  border,  went  on  my  sister’s  head,  twisted  into  a 
turban  that  would  have  astonished  a Turk  as  much  as 
it  did  us.  Anyone  who  has  the  old  edition  of  Miss 
Edgeworth’s  “Early  Lessons,  ” can  find  those  identical 
shawls,  worn  decorously  and  in  their  proper  place,  in 
one  of  the  illustrations. 

So  equipped,  with  our  arms  full  of  books,  and  (per- 
haps !)  a small  plate  of  butternut  candy,  wre  would  stray 
along  dowm  into  the  meadow.  Into  some  meadowr:  it  • 
might  be  the  “long”  or  the  “short”:  the  “brook” 
meadow,  the  “home”  meadow,  the  “bam  field,”  or 
the  “little  orchard,”  and  there  establish  ourselves. 
At  the  foot  of  some  great  haystack  if  possible;  but 
failing  that,  on  some  one  of  the  rocky  spots  about  the 
field,  wEere  Indian  willow  and  Cohosh  grew,  and  low 
blackberries  draped  the  stones  with  their  prickly  leaves. 


Young  Fairyland  107 

We  all  had  our  Bibles;  and  there  we  would  read 
chapters  aloud,  verse  by  verse,  and  sing  hymns;  this 
often  followed  by  a debating  talk  between  my  sister 
and  my  oldest  cousin.  Then  we  would  turn  to  some 
of  the  few  “ Sunday  books  ” we  had  brought  from  town. 
Or  go  over,  for  the  unknownth  time,  one  of  the  exqui- 
site stories  of  faith  and  deliverance  which  my  father 
had  marked  for  us,  in  an  old  English  magazine  volume 
belonging  to  the  house. 

“And  ever  and  anon  the  wind, 

New  scented  with  the  hay, 

Turned  o’er  the  hymn  book’s  fluttering  leaves, 

That  on  the  window  lay.” 

So  it  had  been  in  the  morning  at  Church,  and  so 
it  was  now  in  the  meadow.  To  this  day,  the  sound 
of  village  bells  goes  through  me,  with  that  sharpest 
pain  which  once  was  pleasure. 

They  rang  out  softly  then,  across  the  meadows  and 
harvest  fields;  and  later  the  little  country  wagons 
driving  home  from  afternoon  church  just  lifted  and  let 
fall  the  waves  of  summer  air.  Very  common  little 
wagons,  many  of  them;  but  bearing  back  to  the  com- 
mon life-duties  some  very  uncommon  saints. 

Perhaps  I should  not  say  just  that:  in  all  times  the 
Lord  has  his  reserved  thousands ; and  the  childish  eyes 
can  always  find  them  first.  But  the  blessed  Sunday 
hush — the  “ cessation* ’ — where  will  you  find  that?  It 
has  fled  like  a dove  to  the  wilderness.  Hunted  away 
by  the  so-called  march  of  improvement.  Stillness 
begins  the  day  indeed;  sweet,  fragrant,  healing;  but 
then  come  throbbing  engines,  splashing  wheels,  noisy 
picnic  parties,  trolleys,  bicycles,  and  fast  driving. 

Now  we  were  never  bid  to  use  our  Sunday  afternoons 


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Susan  Warner 


as  I have  told;  it  was  all  entirely  our  own  choice; 
wrought  out  no  doubt  in  part  by  our  Plymouth  inherit- 
ance, and  partly  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  house. 
And  my  sister  would  have  no  more  allowed  certain 
books  to  go  with  us  to  the  meadow,  than  she  would 
have  made  place  for  dolls  or  my  Noah’s  Ark. 

In  these  days,  children  and  grown  people  read 
everything  on  Sunday;  from  newspapers  to  “phy- 
sical culture”:  but  they  will  never  learn  so,  the  curi- 
ous “re-creation”  there  is,  in  a change  of  mental  air 
once  a week. 

“‘Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  learn ; ’ 

Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 
On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn.” 

And  people  rested.  No  story-talking  that  night. 
Hymns  and  talk  among  the  elders,  and  happy,  sleepy 
children,  trooping  off  to  bed. 

Sometimes  I think  there  were  talks  between  my 
father  and  sister  after  we  younger  ones  had  gone: 
started  perhaps  by  some  question  asked  in  the  meadow. 
I seem  to  hear  my  sister  saying: 

“Father,  Anna  wants  to  know” — and  then  the  clos- 
ing door  comes  in  between.  I can  see  her  eagerly 
gazing  into  my  father’s  face  as  he  talked,  drinking  in 
every  word ; but  no  clear  vision  of  the  look  itself  comes 
back.  Perhaps  the  beloved  face  of  later  years  hides  all 
the  rest. 

It  is  a strange  thing  to  say  of  two  whose  lives  were 
afterwards  so  fused  into  one,  but  I think  she  cared  but 
little  for  me  in  those  days ; not  very  much,  I believe,  for 
anyone  but  my  father ; she  never  wanted  to  kiss  anyone 
else.  If  ever  she  kissed  me  at  some  meeting  or  parting, 


Young  Fairyland  109 

I was  the  most  set-up  child  that  could  be.  But  Father 
was  her  joy:  she  had  only  one  shrine  of  perfection 
and  it  was  for  him.  Ah  me,  how  bitterly  she  cried, 
when  his  eyes  began  to  lose  their  early  power:  her 
first  sharp  lesson  in  the  timeworn  truth:  “The  world 
passeth  away.”  That  change  could  touch  him , half 
broke  her  heart. 

Certainly  I always  thought  myself  of  small  ac- 
count in  her  eyes ; and  many  a time  at  Canaan  I would 
walk  round  and  round  under  the  old  apple-trees, 
singing  “forsaken”  songs  to  myself,  and  weeping 
grievous  tears.  Just  so,  some  day,  would  my  heart’s 
delight  forget  me!  Childish  griefs  lie  deep,  sometimes, 
and  nobody  ever  guessed  at  mine. 

There  is  no  record  of  that  first  little  visit  to  West 
Point.  The  journal  skips  to  late  July  when  she  was  at 
Hudson  first  and  then  at  Canaan,  giving  bits  of  her 
inner  self,  amid  all  the  up-country  doings. 

‘ ‘ I ought  to  have  sewed  more  since  Aunty  went  away, 
but  I have  done  hardly  any.  I am  also  not  particularly 
fond  of  my  Latin.” 

“Father  made  us  a nice  swing  under  an  apple-tree  to- 
day. Father,  Anna,  and  I went  up  on  the  hill  this 
evening.  The  landscape  looked  beautifully.  We  sat 
a few  minutes  upon  the  rock  and  came  home.  What  a 
lovely  place  this  is.” 

“One  thing  annoys  me  much.  The  girls  who  come 
to  help  her  in  harvest  time  will  call  Aunt  Fanny  by  her 
Christian  name,  and  will  come  into  the  front  room  and 
sit  down  as  if  they  were  equals.  This  worries  me  and 
makes  me  angry,  though  Aunty  says  it  is  foolish.” 

“To-day  my  lessons  were  to  have  begun,  but  through 
my  laziness  or  procrastination,  they  were  not.  This 
must  not  be  again.  I have  written  a letter  to  Father, 


no 


Susan  Warner 


and  I walked  out  with  the  baby, 1 got  her  to  sleep,  and 
sat  by  her  cradle  while  she  slept,  reading  Moskau, 
which  I like  much.  This  evening  we  walked  up  to 
Uncle  John’s,  as  they  call  him,  and  Fan”  (the  baby 
cousin)  “vexed  me  coming  home,  by  not  wanting  to 
walk  with  me.” 

She  is  changing  now,  with  the  child’s  strength  still 
on,  apparently,  and  girlish  criticism  blooming  out. 

“ August  nth.  Father,  Anna,  George,  and  I,  went  to 
Church  this  morning  at  the  Comer.  The  singingwas 
very  poor,  the  weather  warm,  and  the  sermon  tolerable. 
Before  tea  Anna  and  I read  two  chapters  aloud  to 
Father,  and  after  tea  we  all  took  a delicious  ramble 
over  the  hill.  The  evening  was  delightful,  and  the 
views  beautiful.  We  saw  the  Catskill  Mountains  from 
one  or  two  places.  We  went  pretty  high,  and  in  steep, 
rough  places,  and  I for  one  enjoyed  it  very  much.” 

So  another  day : 

“In  the  afternoon  we  went  to  the  blackberry  field, 
and  got  a parcel  of  berries,  though  not  without  a good 
deal  of  trouble.  Over  and  through  briers,  stones,  and 
thistles ; in  as  rugged  paths  as  any  I ever  saw.  I like 
it  however,  and  I don’t  know  but  it  does  me  good.” 
Until  I read  those  old  entries,  I did  not  know  that 
she  had  ever  enjoyed  rough  walking, — and  I think  after 
that  summer,  she  never  did. 

11  Aug.  20th.  I sewed  and  we  told  stories  some  of  the 
time.  This  is  a very  favourite  amusement  with  me. 
I don’t  know  what  quiet  one  I love  better.” 

“She  seems  rather  stupid,”  wrote  the  young  critic, 
of  some  visitor;  “at  least  she  is  not  an  agreeable  person 
to  talk  to ; she  does  not  shew  much  vivacity,  and  I don’t 
much  like  her  company.” 


A cousin. 


Young  Fairyland 


hi 


Of  a tea  drinking:— 

‘'The  ride  was  the  pleasantest  part  of  it,  for  I have 
not  much  to  say  or  to  do  on  these  occasions.” 

Of  another : — 

“ It  was  dull  enough.” 

Again — 

“ Uncle  James  and  his  wife  drank  tea  with  us  this 
evening.  They  are  nice  people.  I told  Anna  and 
George  a story  out  of  my  head  this  evening.” 

Four  days  later — 

11  Sept.  17.  I told  them  a story.” 

“I  have  read  some  history  to-day,  but  have  not 
done  much  useful,  a common  case  with  me.” 

11  Sept.  2 1st.  And  now  my  journals  at  Canaan  are 
nearly  over,  for  Uncle  Robert  has  come  this  evening, 
so  our  stay  here  will  not  be  long.  I am  sorry,  but  it 
cannot  be  helped.  I don’t  want  to  go  yet  from  this 
place,  but  I must  do  so.” 

“ Sept.  23d.  This  morning  we  left  Canaan.  I was 
very  sorry  to  come,  and  rode  the  first  four  or  five  miles 
with  a full  heart.” 

“Hudson.  We  drank  tea  at  a Mr.  M’s  this  after- 
noon. We  had  a good  tea  and  a good  ride,  the  rest 
was  stupid  enough.  I am  getting  rather  homesick.” 
The  others  of  us  were  in  town.  Now  she  began 
to  be  restless : to  wait  for  what  she  wanted,  never  agreed 
with  her.  Then  she  would  worry. 

‘ ‘ I look  for  Aunt  Fanny  daily,  but  she  does  not  come.” 
“Still  I expect,  and  still  they  linger.” 

“ I don’t  know  what  to  make  of  it.  I thought  they 
would  come,  but  they  have  not.” 

“Oct.  6th.  This  morning  before  we  were  up  they 
came.  Annie  and  I were  glad  enough  to  see  each 
other  again.” 


1 12 


Susan  Warner 


I think  she  kissed  me,  that  day.  Back  in  town 
again  she  writes : 

“ We  took  tea  at  Cousin  Cornelia’s,  and  I had  a very 
pleasant  evening,  being  much  amused  with  the  conver- 
sation.” 

“ Looked  over  one  or  two  problems  on  the  Globes.” — 

“Learnt  a French  lesson.  I began  Anacharsis. 
Hope  I shall  finish  it  in  a year.” 

This  book  ends  with  Nov.  14th, — and  so  far  as  I can 
find,  there  was  no  more  journal  writing  for  some  eight 
months.  But  doubtless  lessons  went  on  after  the  same 
old  fashion ; regular  teachers,  and  a very  irregular  pupil ! 
Teachers  of  singing,  Italian,  and  the  piano;  while  my 
father  was  drill  master  in  grammar,  history,  literature, 
and  the  globes;  and  would  fain  have  made  her  as 
excellent  a Greek  and  Latin  scholar  as  he  was  him- 
self. But  not  even  her  love  for  him  brought  this  about. 
Really  I do  believe  that  those  old  heroes  were  too 
stately  and  remote  for  her  young  imagination  to  get 
hold  of;  while  “Adele  et  Theodore,”  and  “I  promessi 
Sposi,”  put  things  within  easy  reach.  Otherwise  she 
was  very  fond  of  the  study  of  languages,  and  always 
made  quick,  thorough  progress. 

The  singing  lessons  were  a great  delight  to  one 
young  listener ; and  one  day  when  a specially  favourite 
song  rose  on  the  air,  I forgot  everything  but  the  music, 
and  to  the  great  astonishment  of  teacher  and  scholar, 
suddenly  struck  in  with  all  the  voice  I had, 

“Dei  torni,  dei  torni!” 

How  Signor  Bagioli  laughed. 

“Brava!  Brava!’  he  cried,  wheeling  round  on  the 
music  stool.  “Encore,  Encore!”  But  no  persuasion 
could  make  me  sound  another  note ; and  it  is  safe  to  say 


Young  Fairyland  113 

I never  so  forgot  myself  again.  I think  my  sister  must 
have  been  annoyed ; for  she  said  afterwards : 

“ Why  Anna,  whatever  made  you  do  that?” 

“July  81  z834-  No  French,  no  Italian,  or  practice. 
The  weather  is  oppressive.  I have  busied  myself  a long 
while  with  Botany,  and  have  talked  stories,  and  read 
in  Goldsmith’s  England,  and  drunk  lemonade;  which  is 
pleasanter  than  anything  else  one  can  do  in  this  weather. 
I shall  be  delighted  to  get  away  from  the  city,  which  I 
hope  we  shall  do  in  less  than  a fortnight.  I could 
not  take  my  lesson,  for  my  cold.” 

“ July  gth.  No  lessons.  Mr.  Metz  came.  The 
weather  is  hot,  but  not  so  oppressive  as  yesterday. 
I have  occupied  myself  with  botany  and  sewing  and 
talking  stories.  Father  brought  me  home  two  beau- 
tiful books  for  my  dried  flowers.  There  go  four  dollars 
of  my  hundred.1  Miss  Penelope  Mintum  called  this 
evening.  I like  her  for  her  kind,  though  rather  stiff 
manners.  I am  sure  she  means  what  she  says,  and 
that  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  many,  perhaps  of 
most  of  our  acquaintances.  I spent  the  evening  read- 
ing in  Ivanhoe  to  Aunty,  and  in  Goldsmith’s  England 
to  myself.” 

“ July  10th.  I wrote  some  time.  I afterwards 
helped  pick  over  the  currants;  not  for  the  sake  of 
being  useful,  but  because  a thunderstorm  came  on  just 
then,  and  I did  not  care  to  sit  alone.  Ann  made  me 
some  glue  and  I pasted  some  of  my  flowers  and  leaves 
into  one  of  my  new  books.  I like  this  business  very 
much.  How  long  I shall  like  it  is  another  matter. 
Though  Aunt  Fanny  says  I may  take  for  my  motto, 
‘All  things  by  turns,  and  nothing  long,’  I do  not 


A gift  from  her  Grandmother. 


Susan  Warner 


114 

think  I shall  give  this  up.  No  studies  or  practice 
to-day.” 

“July  nth.  Once  again  I am  happy — at  rest ; which 
has  not  been  quite  the  case  for  some  time.  I have 
worried  not  a little,  I have  suffered  not  a little,  but  my 
trouble  is  over,  for  my  tooth  is  out.  It  has  been  a 
strange  way  of  spending  my  birthday,  but  that  is  no 
matter  now.  I am  fifteen  years  old!  In  my  six- 
teenth year.  How  strange  it  seems.  I never  was 
happier  in  my  life  than  I was  in  the  past  year ; or  rather 
I never  enjoyed  myself  so  much;  for  I have  always  been 
happy.  I have  not  taken  my  lesson  to-day.  I feel 
tired  and  headachy,  and  no  wonder,  after  the  siege 
I have  gone  through.  After  tea,  I walked  in  the  garden 
and  played  on  the  piano.” 

Gardens  are  crowded  from  New  York  now.  But  in 
those  early  days,  my  father  always  managed  to  get  an 
extra  lot  running  back  to  the  next  street,  where  he 
could  have  not  only  carriage  house  but  flower  beds  and 
greenhouse  as  well. 

“July  12th.  I wrote  some  time  this  morning,  and 
finished  Goldsmith’s  England.  It  is  more  than  a year 
since  I began  it,  for  such  is  my  dislike  to  history,  when 
compared  to  other  books,  that  I neglected  it  whenever 
I found  anything  which  promised  more  amusement .” 

“ Sunday,  July  13th.  I have  written  some  to-day, 
and  have  looked  into  ‘The  Lady  of  the  Manor,’  that 
old  standby  for  Sundays.  However,  I have  read  it 
until  I am  tired  of  it,  and  it  must  lie  by  for  some  time 
before  I read  it  again  as  I used  to  do.  Anna  and  I read 
a little  in  my  journal”  (here  follows  some  shorthand) 
“this  afternoon,  and  we  had  not  a little  fun.  But  she 
was  the  source  of  merriment,  as  she  always  is.  I do 
hope  it  will  clear  off,  that  we  may  not  be  prevented 


Young  Fairyland  115 

from  going  to  West  Point  on  Wednesday.  I have 
enough  to  do,  however,  before  that  time.  How  de- 
lightful such  a little  bustle  is.” 

‘ ‘ July  14th.  I have  sewed  a long  time  upon  my  cape. 
Mr.  Metz  came,  and  I took  my  lesson;  the  last,  I sup- 
pose, that  I shall  have  in  a long  time.  For  that  I am 
not  sorry.  Mr.  Metz  gives  me  few  pieces  that  are 
calculated  to  make  one  love  practising,  and  in  hot 
weather  especially,  puzzling  music  is  not  agreeable.” 

“July  1 jth.  I have  sewed  on  my  cape,  and  darned 
stockings  to-day  till  I am  tired  of  it.  We  are  in  fine 
confusion,  for  we  expect  to  go  to-morrow,  and  it  is 
very  hot.  There  is  a pleasant  breeze  however,  and 
we  have  need  of  it.  I have  nearly  packed  my  box  of 
books,  and  I have  washed  pencil  drawings,  and  I have 
still  some  things  to  do.  I am  a little  tired.  I took  my 
lesson,  or  rather  part  of  it;  mended  pens,  filled  my  ink 
phial,  etc.” 

“July  1 6th.  West  Point.  We  are  here  at  last  and 

0 how  glad  am  I.  Last  night  I would  not  go  to  bed 
till  11  o’clock,  and  partly  perhaps,  on  that  account, 

1 have  felt  miserably  the  greatest  part  of  the  day.  The 
voyage  was  extremely  tiresome  to  me,  and  I had  as 
usual  a good  deal  of  excitement,  which  makes  one 
feel  worse  than  anything  else.  But  we  arrived  at  last 
without  accident,  save  that  Aunty  lost  a basket 
containing  many  little  necessary  things.  It  went  on  to 
Albany.  I was  so  tired  that  I actually  fell  asleep  after 
we  arrived ; a very  uncommon  thing  for  me  to  do  in  the 
day  time.  But  I feel  much  better  since  tea,  which  I 
relished  much,  for  we  had  delightful  large  ripe  rasp- 
berries, not  such  as  we  get  at  home,  good  toast,  and 
everything  nice.  After  tea  we  walked  down  to  the 
Hospital,  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  very  pleasant ; we 


Susan  Warner 


1 16 

saw  the  steamboat  pass,  and  came  home,  drank  lem- 
onade, very  grateful  after  out  walk,  and  then  went  to 
bed.” 

Under  July  ipth,  she  writes: 

“I  have  occupied  myself  some  time  with  Botany 
to-day;  & I have  read  in  Mrs.  Willard’s  ‘Journal 
and  Letters.’  I am  at  length  allowed  to  read  Scott’s 
Novels!  — Under  great  restrictions  however.  One 
hour  a day  is  the  prescribed  term  for  that  reading. 
I keep  it  for  the  last  hour  of  the  evening,  and  then  I 
have  not,  during  the  day,  to  regret  that  it  is  over.  I 
enjoy  it  of  course,  however  limited  my  permission  may 
be.  I am  now  reading  the  Betrothed.” 

“ July  2jd.  I drew  some  this  morning,  read  in 
‘British  Essayists,’  and  pasted  flowers  a good  while. 
These  employments  have  taken  up  the  greater  part  of 
the  day.” 

11  July  24th.  I drew  a little  this  morning  and  pasted 
one  or  two  flowers  that  I had  left.  I have  read  a good 
part  of  the  day  in  ‘British  Essayists,’  which  gives  me 
much  pleasure.  It  has  been  rainy,  so  we  have  staid  at 
home.  I enjoy  myself  here,  except  when  I find  myself 
without  anything  to  do,  which  sometimes  happens. 
I have  passed  my  time  very  pleasantly,  however.  I 
have  just  come  up  from  tea,  which  I have  not  enjoyed 
as  usual,  because  some  Lieutenant  who  had  come  to  see 
Uncle  Thomas  was  there.  It  is  a misfortune  to  be  so 
timid  as  I am.  In  company  with  strangers  I can 
hardly  speak,  look,  or  move,  with  comfort,  compara- 
tively, unless  it  is  at  our  own  home.  Indeed  I some- 
times neglect  or  perform  imperfectly,  certain  rules  of 
politeness,  and  so  may  be  thought  rude,  when  in  fact 
I do  not  mean  to  be  so.” 

You  perceive  she  was  not  at  all  an  “up  to  date  ” girl : 


Young  Fairyland  117 

not  to  this  date,  when  “fifteen’  ’ seems  to  be  ready  for  all 
the  Lieutenants  that  come  along ; hailing  them  as  un- 
known possibilities.  But  I think  she  was  always  too 
intensely  romantic  to  play  with  such  themes  as  love  and 
marriage:  the  words  meant  too  much  to  her  unspoiled 
imagination.  While  her  absolute  truth  and  earnestness 
ever  made  it  as  impossible  for  her  to  flirt,  as  it  was 
to  fly.  She  detested  the  “foolish  jesting”  in  that  line. 
Once  when  she  was  I think,  sixteen,  a certain  girl  friend 
began  a laughing  comment  on  the  frequent  visits  of 
one  particular  gentleman  at  the  house.  Whereupon 
my  indignant  sister  blazed  round  upon  her  as  follows : 
“I  hope  I shall  never  be  reduced  so  low  as  to  make 
my  conversation  about  such  things.” 

In  that,  she  never  changed.  But  she  grew  to  be 
intensely  fond  of  society,  and  of  strangers,  and  of  enter- 
taining; coming  into  a coolness  of  self  possession  I 
have  not  often  seen  equalled.  Even  in  a crisis,  her 
sublime  unconcern  sometimes  made  the  rest  of  us  laugh : 
I cannot  recognise  my  sister,  as  disturbed  by  any  Lieu- 
tenant that  ever  wore  shoulder  straps.  But  the  next 
day’s  entry  is  very  life  like. 

“Uncle  Thomas  and  I had  a long  and  very  warm  dis- 
pute this  evening  about  music  and  minor  and  major. 
It  continued  till  I was  tired  of  the  war  of  words,  and  at 
last  we  grew  so  rough,  that  I almost  came  to  hysterics, 
and  broke  off  the — conversation  it  could  not  be  called 
— by  going  upstairs,  and  there  I sat  down  on  the  steps 
and  cried  heartily,  while  I heard  Uncle  Thomas  say, 
with  heat — ‘Why  she  is  totally  ignorant  of  the  very 
A.  B.  C.  of  music!’  and  Aunt  Fanny  softly  replied, 
‘But  what  can  you  expect  from  a girl  of  fifteen?”’ 

It  was  during  this  visit  that  she  first  set  foot  on  the 
rocky  island  which  was  afterwards  to  be,  for  the  rest  of 


n8 


Susan  Warner 


our  lives,  the  most  dearly  loved  home  that  ever  people 
had.  But  no  monition  of  this  stirred  her  heart  that 
day. 

“July  28th.  This  morning  we  all  took  the  boat 
and  rowed  over  to  Constitution  Island.  We  wandered 
about  looking  at  the  prospect,  and  considering  the 
ground,  for  Father  actually  had  thought  of  buying  it 
for  a country  place.  It  did  not  look  very  prepossessing, 
however ; for  nothing  can  be  more  rough  and  rude  than 
the  face  of  that  Island.  At  length,  being  all  very 
thirsty,  and  pretty  warm,  we  stopped  at  a poor  looking 
house  and  begged  some  water.  A good  old  woman  in- 
vited us  in,  and  brought  us  some.  The  house  was  very 
neat  indeed,  though  poor.  Father  and  Uncle  Thomas 
then  went  off  to  view  the  ground  further,  but  we  sat 
down  in  the  shade  to  wait  for  them.” 

Ah,  how  I wish  I knew  on  which  rocks,  and  under 
which  cedars!  The  room  was  probably  the  front  one 
with  the  little  windows:  afterwards  our  beloved  and 
special  study.  Where  so  many  of  the  books  were 
written ; and  where  we  lived  our  life,  more  than  in  any 
spot  on  earth;  fighting  the  fight,  wrestling  with  sorrow, 
gathering  up  the  joy.  Almost  everything  in  that  room 
has  a history : people  of  all  sorts  and  many  nationalities 
have  been  there.  And  for  me,  the  silence  now  has 
phonographic  power;  bringing  back  talks,  debates, 
counsels,  songs,  and  laughter.  Words  of  patience,  and 
of  thanksgi ving ; of  brave  endurance,  of  humble  trust. 
But  to  the  city  girl,  then,  it  was  only  “poor.” 

The  day  ends  in  character. 

“This  evening  all  but  me  went  round  to  visit  Mrs. 
Alden  and  Mrs.  Wheldon.  I shut  the  doors  and  windows 
of  the  front  parlour  to  keep  out  bats  and  insects,  and 
sat  there  reading  ‘ The  Betrothed  * till  they  came  back.” 


Young  Fairyland  119 

The  novel — and  the  shut  windows.  She  used  to  call 
herself  a “constitutional  coward”;  and  certainly  she 
had  nerves  enough  for  two.  Afraid  of  storms,  burglars, 
steamboats,  and  horses,  and  cattle;  of  worms,  snakes, 
mice,  bats,  and  caterpillars.  It  was  a regular  thing  in 
summer,  to  see  her  turn  a chair  up  and  down  and  round 
about  before  she  would  sit  on  it,  lest  some  cree  ing 
creature  might  be  there.  She  would  try  the  bedroom 
door  at  intervals  through  the  night  to  see  if  it  was 
locked ; and  I have  known  her  many  a time  to  get  up  in 
the  perfect  darkness  and  creep  all  about  under  her  bed, 
to  make  sure  there  was  no  one  there.  And  never  were 
nerves  more  astir,  than  in  some  rare  fit  of  sickness ; for 
then  woke  up  with  sudden  energy  the  great  question — • 
never  forgotten,  but  as  yet  unsettled, — of  the  future 
life  and  what  it  held  for  her.  She  was  eighteen  I think 
when  she  had  scarlet-fever:  and  she  would  lie  thinking 
and  questioning  with  herself,  till  the  “tester”  rings  of 
the  old  high-post  bedstead  shook  and  rattled  with  her 
trembling. 

She  was  timid  on  ice,  on  a foot  bridge,  on  a gangway ; 
with  imagination  always  at  work ; and  in  times  of  public 
sickness  or  disturbance,  the  papers  were  kept  from  her. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  same  lively  imagination  gave 
her  the  most  deep-seated,  far-reaching  love  of  stories: 
she  could  make  one  out  of  anything.  What  comical 
young  novels  of  her  writing  I have  yet ! — the  old  copy 
book  filled  with  scrawling  but  very  legible  details, 
about  “Lady  Virginia”  and  “the  Marquis,”  arbours, 
strawberry  ice,  and  love  making.  These  were  earlier 
than  most  of  her  journals,  but  the  passion  had  only 
grown  stronger;  and  now,  at  fifteen,  she  shuts  herself 
up  on  a warm  summer  evening,  from  society  and  the 
bats,  and  with  her  story. 


I 20 


Susan  Warner 


Long  after  she  gave  up  playing  with  card  babies  her- 
self, she  liked  to  paint  them  for  my  cousin  and  me; 
dreaming  dreams  over  them,  I make  no  doubt,  and  with 
always  Ruskin’s  “Lamp  of  Truth”  near  by.  She 
would  ransack  books  for  names  and  national  costumes, 
making  sure  that  the  wee  people  were  not  only  clad  but 
called  correctly;  and  would  no  more  have  named  an 
English  paper  girl  “Carlotta,”  or  a Swede  “Betsey,” 
than  she  would  have  confused  their  head  dresses  or 
mixed  up  their  shoes. 

But  the  journal  record  gives  sorrowful  hints  as  years 
go  on.  For  the  love  of  books  reigned  paramount.  I 
can  see  now  how  it  wrought  to  the  undermining  of  her 
health.  For  a good  while  indeed  the  deepest  effects 
were  staved  off  by  the  young  life  within  her ; but  when 
first  youth  was  past,  and  work  supplanted  play,  then 
the  clear  health  and  strength  which  should  have  been 
stored  up  in  those  early  years,  was  lacking.  It  wrings 
my  heart  to  see  how  she  read  and  studied,  even  in  the 
summer  time  out  of  town.  Books,  always  books! 

‘ ‘ July  29,  ’34.  I finished  the  Betrothed  this  morning, 
because  we  were  to  go  away.  When  the  bell  rang  we 
hurried  and  were  hurried  very  much  to  get  to  the  wharf 
in  time,  but  after  all  we  waited  there  for  half  an  hour 
or  more;  for  the  first  two  boats  were  crowded,  and 
we  thought  best  to  wait  for  the  third,  the  Albany. 
Father  got  me  a book  on  board,  ‘Simple  Tales’  by  Mrs. 
Opie,  in  wdiich  I read  a good  deal.” 

11  July  30th.  Early  this  morning  we  took  the  stage 
for  Canaan.  The  ride  was  not  very  tedious  to  me,  for 
I took  along  a book  of  Ellen’s,  ‘The  Swiss  Family 
Robinson,’  and  read  a good  part  of  it  on  the  road.” 

My  grandfather  lived  in  the  old  house  alone,  with 
only  a housekeeper  to  care  for  it  and  for  him.  Just 


Young  Fairyland  12 1 

then  there  had  been  a change  of  functionaries, — at 
least  one  had  gone  and  the  next  not  come, — and  the 
arriving  daughters  found  much  to  do,  and  were  glad 
to  turn  off  small  jobs  to  the  smaller  hands.  It  was 
“almost  impossible  to  get  anybody  to  work,  who  was 
not  in  one  way  or  another,  worse  than  nobody.”  The 
first  entry  that  day  sounds  busy. 

“Aug.  1st.  Today  I wrote,  swept  the  shed,  and  then 
ironed.  I am  pretty  well  tired.  I like  to  iron  very 
much,  to  be  sure,  but  one  may  have  too  much  of  a 
good  thing.” 

‘ * Aug.  2nd.  This  has  been  a pleasant,  because  a busy 
day.  I worked  at  my  book1  a long  time  this  morning, 
and  then  I rubbed  one  of  the  bureaus  with  vinegar  and 
water,  and  the  knobs  with  rottenstone  and  oil.  This 
was  a long  and  dirty  job.  I strung  my  iEolian  harp 
which  I found  in  the  garret,  put  a loop  on  my  frock,  and 
looked  into  the  Swiss  Family  Robinson.  I cannot 
recollect  any  other  employment  of  the  day  that  deserves 
mentioning.  We  found  things  pretty  dirty  when  we 
came,  but  Aunty  has  already  put  things  in  better 
order.” 

Well  for  the  girl  if  there  had  been  no  outside- helpers 
found  to  keep  the  house  to  rights,  and  the  busy,  active 
days  had  held  on  through  all  the  summer.  So  our 
human  wisdom  is  ready  to  say.  But  the  short  time  of 
demand  went  by,  and  her  life  lapsed  back  into  its 
deadly  inaction,  with  the  inevitable  results. 

“Sunday  Aug.  3rd.  We  have  not  been  to  Church. 
I have  been  looking  over  Psalms  with  reference  to  my 
book ; and  I have  spent  a good  part  of  the  day  in  this 
manner.  We  picked  out  the  meats  of  butternuts  and  we 

1 Here  a shorthand  name  for  (I  fancy)  some  sort  of  a Daily  Text 
Book. 


122 


Susan  Warner 


three  took  a pleasant  little  walk  upon  the  hill,  and  to 
the  spring.  But  somehow  or  other,  I do  not  run  over 
the  hill  with  near  so  much  agility  and  life  as  formerly. 
Either  I have  grown  lazy,  or  timid.  I creep  along  slow- 
ly, while  George  springs  over  everything  in  his  way, 
and  runs  up  and  down  a steep  hill  without  fear,  and  con- 
sequently with  greater  safety,  and  with  far  greater 
pleasure  than  I can,  and  even  Anna  gets  along  better 
than  I do.” 

“ Monday  Aug.  4th.  I have  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  at  my  desk,  which  this  morning  I established 
nicely  by  the  window  of  the  east  room  upstairs.  I 
looked  over  hymns  a good  while,  making  notes  for  my 
book,  and  I studied  my  lessons,  which  I have  begun 
again  regularly  today.  I rubbed  the  face  of  another 
bureau  with  vinegar  and  water.  Almost  every  day 
since  I have  been  here,  I have  got  one  or  two  new 
flowers.  Today  Anna  brought  me  some  pond  lilies, 
which  are  splendid;  far  more  beautiful  than  Camelias 
or  Cape  Jessamines.  I only  hope  they  will  dry  well. 
My  flowers  are  a great  amusement  to  me.  41  lines  of 
Italian,  15  pages  of  French.” 

“ Tuesday . I have  looked  over  hymns  and  have 
studied  to-day  much  as  I did  yesterday.  I wiped  the 
china,  and  rubbed  the  table,  and  this  afternoon  I 
darned  a pair  of  stockings.  Except  while  doing  these 
little  things,  I have  been  mostly  at  my  desk.  Father 
told  me,  it  is  true,  that  I must  run  about,  two  hours 
every  day,  but  how  can  I go  alone,  or  even  with  Anna  ? 
Aunty,  too,  says  that  sitting  still  so  much  is  the  way 
to  kill  me,  and  that  I shall  grow  thin.  I had  as  lieve 
grow  thin  as  fat  however,  for  the  other  day  looking  in 
the  glass  I was  rather  surprised,  and  certainly  not 
much  pleased,  to  see  how  far  I am  from  slender.  But 


Young  Fairyland  123 

I should  like  to  run  over  the  hills  more,  if  I had  any  one 
to  go  with  me.” 

It  was  always  so,  with  her;  exercise  must  be  well  pro- 
portioned, and  comely,  or  she  wanted  none  of  it;  my 
tiptoe  escapades  took  her  breath  away.  Climbing  hay 
mows,  mounting  ladders,  swinging,  racing, — she  would 
stand  and  look  on  in  calm  astonishment;  and  the 
more  humdrum  variations  she  never  sought  as  I did, 
just  because  I could  not  keep  still. 

‘ ‘ I think  I sit  more  here  than  I did  at  home,  and  that 
should  not  be.  But  what  can  I do?  Anna  contrives 
to  get  exercise  enough.  She  works  in  the  house,  that 
is,  shells  peas,  chums  butter,  (all  by  herself,)  and 
mns  for  water,  or  does  anything  that  is  required  of  her. 
She  has  brought  me  most  of  the  flowers  that  I have 
dried  since  I have  been  here.  12 J p.  French.  15  1. 
Italian.” 

Yes,  the  fun  of  churning  down  in  the  wide  old  cellar, 
where  kittens  peeped  out  from  the  empty  apple  bins, 
and  great  casks  of  pork  and  beef  and  soft  soap  and  vine- 
gar stood  solemn  sentry,  was  great ; and  so  was  fetching 
water  from  the  brook.  The  mountain  spring  that 
splashed  out  of  long  wooden  troughs  at  the  back  door, 
was  delicious  water,  but  hard,  and  not  fit  for  household 
use. 

The  brook  came  meandering  along  from  the  sawmill, 
across  the  road,  jumped  down  a sudden  cleft  like  a skee 
racer,  wandered  about  the  meadow,  and  at  last  crept 
under  the  “snake”  fence  to  the  high  road.  You  might 
have  thought  it  meant  to  see  for  itself  what  the  world 
was  like,  for  it  spread  out  in  quite  a pool  by  the  road- 
side, gurgling  and  murmuring  with  one  of  the  sweetest 
voices  that  break — and  shame — earth’s  discord.  But 
then  presently — wise  little  brook! — it  ran  back  under 


124 


Susan  Warner 


the  fence  into  the  next  meadow,  and  stole  away  to  meet 
the  cows. 

It  was  the  greatest  fun  for  me  to  catch  up  a tin  pail 
(that  would  hold  enough  to  wash  two  teacups)  and 
scamper  down  to  the  brook,  climb  along  the  rails, 
souse  in  the  pail,  and  bear  home  my  little  load.  But 
the  rush  of  water  was  swift ; and  many  a time  it  caught 
the  pail  from  my  hands,  whirled  it  round,  and  then  al- 
lowed it  to  sail  away,  and  back  up  against  the  fence. 
It  is  a wonder  to  me  now,  that  my  efforts  at  recapture 
did  not  land  (!)  me  in  the  water  beside  my  pail. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  my  darling, — for  us  all — 
if  she  had  run  wild  after  my  fashion : that  it  was  not  in 
her  to  do. 

“Aug.  nth.  I have  spent  most,  or  at  least  a good 
part  of  today,  at  my  lessons  which  I now  like  well 
enough.  What  a change  in  this  respect  since  last 
summer.  But  it  may  be  as  much  because  of  a differ- 
ence of  studies,  as  of  feelings,  though  I would  fain  think 
it  is  not.  My  studies  are  very  easy  now,  which  they 
certainly  were  not  last  summer.  I went  to  the  spring 
and  scraped  stones  and  earth  there  with  Anna,  and 
looked  into  the  Encyclopedia  for  a while,  and  studied 
Italian  and  French  a long  time.  So  here  I sit  day  after 
day,  with  little  variation.  I run  down  to  meals,  and 
very  often  run  up  again  very  soon,  and  sit  till  my  bones 
ache,  either  studying,  or  reading,  or  working  at  some 
nonsense.  I never  was  more  sedentary  in  my  life, 
and  yet  what  do  I come  here  for?  Exercise  and  air. 
I might,  as  Aunty  says,  almost  as  well  be  at  home. 
9 p.  French;  2-yItalian.” 

Her  nervous  imagination  fostered  this  indoor  life; 
with  slippery  hills,  and  creeping  things,  and  strange 
wayfarers  along  the  road, — all  sorts  of  unknown  possi- 


Young  Fairyland  125 

bilities  everywhere, — the  sheltering  walls  of  the  house 
seemed  delightful,  and  she  left  them  as  little  as  she 
could. 

“ Aug.  13.  We  rambled  as  usual  this  evening.  We 
went  to  the  east  hill,  and  Anna  and  Aunty  climbed  up 
the  steep  side  of  it;  no  easy  job.  I gave  it  up,  after 
going  two  or  three  feet;  partly  perhaps,  through  lazi- 
ness, partly  through  fear.  This  evening  I finished  the 
Abbot.  I enjoy  my  hour  of  reading  every  night  very 
much.  20  p.  French.” 

So  the  entries  run. 

“I  have  darned  a pair  of  stockings,  and  have  drawn 
a card  baby  for  Anna.” 

“Painted  Anna’s  card  baby,  and  looked  after  my 
flowers.”  (In  the  little  press  where  they  were  drying.) 

Once  in  a while  came  an  out -door  day,  but  with  little 
sound  exercise  even  then.  Play- work  among  the  mossy 
stones  at  the  head  of  the  spring,  cracking  butternuts 
under  the  old  trees,  or  an  excursion  after  pine-boughs  to 
fill  the  fireplace. 

“Aug.  21.  I have  studied  a good  while  today,  but 
only  French,  and  did  not  begin  until  after  dinner. 
By  the  by,  we  do  not  have  dinner”  (at  midday)  “but 
only  sweetmeats,  bread  or  toast,  butter  and  milk; 
the  best  dinner  in  the  world.” 

“I  pasted  one  or  two  flowers  in,  and  busied  myself  in 
different  ways  in  the  morning.  Among  other  things 
I darned  stockings  and  talked  stories,  my  favourite 
amusement.  I do  love  it  very  much.  Anna  is  not  as 
fond  of  it  as  I am.” 

The  next  entry  is  in  strange  contrast  to  the  hurrying, 
precocious  girlhood  of  to-day.  Fifteen  years  old  has 
changed  its  stand  since  then. 

“Aug.  22.  I have  put  up  my  hair  today  myself, 


126 


Susan  Warner 


and  I think  I shall  now  keep  it  so.  It  does  seem  strange 
when  I think  that  my  next  birthday  wdll  be  my  six- 
teenth. But  thank  fortune,  it  is  a good  while  before 
that  time.  I don’t  like  the  thought  of  being  even  a 
few  years  older  than  I am  now.  I am  so  happy  as  I am ; 
just  enough  of  a child.” 

“ Aug.  30th.  We  chose  a place  hard  by,  to  make  a 
hermitage  or  grotto,  which  was  very  shady  and  suited 
us  better  than  Pine  Grove.  We  soon  found  that  we 
wanted  certain  articles  to  work  with,  and  so  I made  a 
toilsome  journey  to  the  house  to  get  them.  Meanwhile 
the  rest  hunted  after  flat  stones,  snail  shells,  moss,  and 
acorns,  to  add  convenience  and  adornment  to  our 
grotto.  At  last  I got  back  with  a broom,  basket,  ham- 
mer, and  knife,  and  we  fell  to  work  in  good  earnest.  I 
picked  and  swept  the  cracks  of  the  rock,  and  George 
made  a sort  of  shelf  in  a large  crack  or  chasm,  on 
which  we  might  put  books,  or  anything;  and  to  keep  it 
from  the  rain,  he  and  I with  some  trouble  lifted  to  the 
top  a large  flat  stone  which  served  as  a roof  to  our 
closet.  As  we  were  returning  home,  we  heard  Aunty 
calling  us  to  tea,  so  long  we  had  staid.  I finished  ‘ Quentin 
Durward  ’ in  the  evening.  ’ ’ 

11  Need  day.  This  evening  we  had  a real  frolic. 
George  came  up,  and  after  tea  we  took  a candle  into  the 
east  room.  We  had  a good  game  of  blindman’s  buff ; 
then  How,  When,  and  Where,  and  lastly  we  began  to 
tell  stories.  We  played  about  two  hours,  and  I have 
hardly  had  such  an  exercising  since  I have  been  here.” 

“ Sep.  3.  This  morning  Fan  was  with  me  a good  deal, 
and  I did  not  study  much.  I pasted  in  flowers,  but 
did  not  accomplish  much  till  afternoon,  or  after  tea. 
Aunty  and  George  have  gone  to  ride.  I have  begun 
‘ Anne  of  Geierstein.’  Time  passes  very  happily  and 


Young  Fairyland  127 

quietly.  If  my  piano  was  here,  and  we  could  see  Father 
often,  I do  think  I could  be  very  well  contented  here 
in  the  winter.  3.6.  Italian.” 

Not  the  fifteen  year  old  type  of  this  day  and  genera- 
tion. 

“Sep.  5.  I read  Italian  a long  time  today,  and  in- 
deed got  somewhat  interested  in  the  book.  My  study- 
ing, if  it  merits  the  name,  is  now  a pleasure  to  do,  a 
pleasure  to  think  of,  and  a pleasure  to  have  done ; and 
when  I think  of  it,  I feel  that  there  is  necessity  for  me 
to  press  onward  as  fast  as  may  be.” 

About  this  time  she  says : 

“I  wrote  at  a new  game  I have  in  my  head.”  Else- 
where she  calls  it  “my  Scientifical  Game”;  and  often 
refers  to  it.  She  “works”  at  it,  “plays”  it,  and  says 
she  “likes”  it, — but  I have  no  notion  what  it  was. 

“Sep.  14th.  After  tea  we  three  went  on  the  hill  to 
the  east.  We  clambered  up,  and  then  attempted  to 
go  down  where  the  hill  was  quite  steep  and  slippery, 
which  I did  not  accomplish  without  a fall.  It  was  the 
occasion  of  more  laughing  than  pain,  however.” 

“Sep.  15th.  I have  studied  nicely  today,  both 
French  and  Italian.  I have  worked  at  our  Scientifical 
Game .” 

“Sep.  1 6th.  I worked  so  long  at  my  Scientifical 
Game  this  morning,  that  I read  only  Italian.  This  after- 
noon, Grandpa,  Anna,  and  I took  a ride  in  the  wagon, 
and  Aunty  rode  the  old  mare.  We  went  round  the 
pond,  and  then  down  by  the  Dug  Way.  Our  ride  was 
quite  long,  and  very  pleasant.  We  played  at  our  new 
game  this  evening  with  much  pleasure.  It  is  both 
amusing  and  useful,  and  George  and  I like  it  very  well, 
though  Anna  does  not.  I think  we  should  learn  a good 
deal  by  playing  every  evening  for  a fortnight.” 


128 


Susan  Warner 


11  Sep.  1 8th.  I worked  at  our  Scientifical  Game  and 
busied  myself  about  it,  for  a long  time  this  morning.  I 
studied  Italian  at  length,  but  not  much  French.  We 
walked  up  to  Uncle  John’s  this  morning,  and  staid 
awhile,  and  we  played  at  our  new  game  after  we  came 
home.  I have  little  to  say  nowadays,  and  how  should 
it  be  otherwise?  Time  passes  pleasantly  enough,  how- 
ever, and  I am  in  no  hurry  to  get  home.  But  that 
period  will  come  before  very  long,  the  leaves  are  be- 
ginning to  turn.” 

‘ ‘ Sep.  20th.  I had  a talk  with  Aunty,  who  charges  me 
of  laziness.  It  may  be  so : it  seems  other  than  she  are  of 
the  same  opinion.” 

“I  am  in  no  hurry  to  get  home.  The  season  is  de- 
lightful, and  we  have  so  many  pleasures.” 

11  Oct.  i.  I timed  my  Aeolian  harp  this  morning  and 
busied  myself  a good  while  with  it.  I studied  as  usual. 
I wrote  a letter  to  Father.  I wrote  names  for  some 
time.”  ( i . e.  name  lists.)  “We  talked  stories  again 
in  the  evening;  an  amusement  which  I do  love  dearly; 
and  with  three  it  is  so  much  pleasanter  than  with  two.” 
Two  days  later.  “We  talked  for  above  three  hours 
this  evening.  We  had  a great  deal  of  fun.  We  get 
into  the  farthest  comer  of  the  room,  draw  our  three 
chairs  as  close  as  possible  to  one  another,  and  then 
put  our  heads  together,  and  talk  wTith  all  our  might. 
Each  of  us  loves  this  amusement  very  much.  We 
transport  ourselves  into  another  world  of  our  own  mak- 
ing, and  I for  my  part  am  very  fond  of  it.” 

“After  an  early  tea  Grandpa  went  with  us  three  to  the 
little  orchard  where  we  got  a few  apples,  and  from  thence 
to  the  next  field  above,  where  are  three  large  chestnut 
trees.  George  climbed  into  one  and  whipped  it,  and 
with  time  and  patience,  we  succeeded  in  procuring 


129 


Young  Fairyland 

rather  more  than  a quart  of  chestnuts.  Grandpa 
left  us  after  a little  while  but  we  staid  till  after  sun- 
down. The  day  was  fine,  but  on  the  hill  where  we  were 
it  was  bitter  cold.  The  wind  blew  very  hard  there,  and 
I should  judge  we  were  there  from  two  to  three  hours. 
However,  we  all  liked  the  fun,  and  ran  home  in  very 
good  spirits  and  well  pleased  with  our  expedition.  We 
boiled  and  eat  our  chestnuts  in  the  evening.” 

“Oct.  7th.  All  but  me  went  to  ride  this  morning. 
Aunt  Fanny  and  Miss  Whiting,  on  horseback,  and  the 
rest  in  the  wagon.  I wrote  and  studied  a long  time, 
then  played  on  my  harp.1  I dressed  and  wrote  a 
letter  to  Father.  We  talked  stories  in  the  evening. 
We  shall  not  be  here  a week  more,  probably.  I shall 
very  much  like  to  see  home  again  on  some  accounts. 
Not  that  I am  tired  of  Canaan.  It  is  pleasanter  than 
ever  here,  and  the  scenery  looks  beautiful,  and  the 
weather  is  delightful.  4 p.  Italian.” 

Certain  friends  having  come  to  tea:  “Aunty  made 
me  bring  out  my  harp,  once  an  Aeolian  harp,  and  I 
played  ‘Auld  Lang  Syne’  upon  it.  I like  H.  very 
much,  far  better  than  L.  with  her  airs  and  graces.  We 
sat  in  the  east  room  by  ourselves  this  evening,  over  the 
fire,  and  talked  stories  at  a great  rate.  No  lessons 
today.” 

“Oct.  nth.  Today  being  George’s  holiday,  and  the 
last  one  we  were  to  spend  here,  we  were  determined 
to  make  the  most  of  it,  and  we  have  done  so.  When  the 
frost  was  off  the  ground,  we  three  sallied  forth  with  a 
bag,  in  wThich  to  put  whatever  we  might  find.  We 
picked  up  some  sweet  apples  in  the  little  orchard,  and 
then  went  to  the  large  field  beyond,  where  with  a good 
deal  of  time  and  trouble  we  succeeded  in  securing  250 

1 Only  the  strings  of  the  ^olian. 


130 


Susan  Warner 


chestnuts,  just  50  apiece,  for  both  Auntys  came  in  for 
a share.  We  came  home,  eat  bread  and  butter  and 
molasses,  and  started  again  with  a basket  of  butternuts, 
which  we  cracked  on  a nice  new  stone,  near  our  old 
place.  When  we  had  finished  (talking  stories  all  the 
while),  we  went  to  Pine  Grove,  and  there  we  staid 
till  after  sundown;  by  which  I took  a slight  cold,  for  I 
had  nothing  on  my  head.  We  attempted  to  tell  stor- 
ies this  evening,  but  had  so  many  interruptions  that 
we  did  not  proceed  much.  I walked  and  rocked  with 
Fanny,  and  sang  to  her.  Uncle  Robert  came  out 
this  evening.” 

“Oct.  1 2th.  Uncle  Robert  decided  to  go  back  to 
Hudson  immediately  after  tea.  We  had  one  of  the 
best  suppers  I had  ever  eaten.  We  had  excellent  fric- 
asseed chicken,  Carolina  potatoes,  honey,  eggs,  cake, 
bread  and  butter,  and  tea.  We  started  as  soon  as  our 
meal  was  ended.  Both  Grandpa  and  George  felt  pretty 
sad  at  our  departure,  but  I did  not  feel  much,  till  I came 
to  kiss  Grandpa  for  goodbye.” 

“ Hudson , Oct.  16th.  All  but  me  went  out  this  after- 
noon, and  I was  alone  with  Fanny  in  the  parlour,  when 
the  door  opened  and  in  came  Father!  I was  surprised 
and  rejoiced  to  see  him.  Father  told  us  some  news, 
very  agreeable,  at  least  to  me.  He  has  read  ‘Helen/ 
and  likes  it  wonderfully;  and  the  house  at  home  is  all 
ready  cleaned!” 

“ Oct  iyth.  We  came  down  the  river  today,  and  the 
sail  was  disagreeable  and  tedious  enough  to  me.  I 
read  to  be  sure,  but  the  motion  of  the  boat  made  me 
feel  unpleasantly.” 

“Oct.  20th.  I have  played  a good  deal  today  and 
have  taken  my  lesson  from  Mr.  Metz.  My  journal  may 
be  pretty  dull  this  winter.  No  matter,  I will  put  down 


Young  Fairyland  131 

how  much  I accomplish  every  day.  I have  read  part  of 
a lecture  in  Blair,  and  I have  read  4-20  Italian,  9. 
French.  When  Father  questioned  me  upon  my  lecture 
in  the  evening,  it  appeared  I had  not  given  it  sufficient 
attention.  I felt  unpleasantly,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  I was  not  as  happy  here  as  in  Canaan,  where 
all  is  quiet  and  happiness,  at  least  for  me.  I have  read 
in  Belinda  this  evening.’' 

Some  days  later  comes  a very  old-time  little  entry, 
touching  old  New  York. 

“This  morning  we  all  rode  with  Father  to  a place 
called  ‘The  Red  House,’  where  we  went  to  buy  a 
cow.  It  is  about  six  miles  from  here.  We  had  quite 
a pleasant  ride  of  it.” 

On  such  occasions,  the  cow  was  led  out  to  be  looked  at, 
and  a glass  of  her  milk  brought  to  the  carriage  door 
for  my  Father  to  taste  and  approve. 

For  a good  while  now,  and  mingled  in  with  visitors, 
drives,  and  books,  the  brief  records  of  her  more  per- 
sonal life  shew  the  same  girl,  with  the  same  irregular 
ways.  Wayward,  flitting;  never  idle,  for  there  was 
always  at  least  a dream  on  hand,  and  a wide  awake 
mind  as  well ; but  far  removed  from  method  and  steady 
application. 

“I  have  read  Italian  and  a lecture  of  Blair;  no 
French.  Mr.  Hackley  dined  here.  Father  began  to 
read  Ennui  this  evening.” 

“I  have  studied  as  usual  and  read  in  Blair,  which  I 
don’t  much  fancy.” 

“I  have  read  French  and  Blair,  and  taken  my  singing 
lesson,  I also  took  my  music  lesson  from  Mr.  Metz,  a 
very  pleasant  lesson,  for  I knew  my  piece.  I have  read 
in  Scott’s  Life  of  Napoleon  which  I began  at  Hudson. 
I like  it  much.  My  week’s  work  is  10-16  I.  64  F.” 


i32 


Susan  Warner 


“Maria  and  her  girl  are  here.1  Study,  no  Blair, 
some  practice.  I have  looked  at  the  trainers,  read 
aloud,  and  wasted  some  time.,, 

Lest  the  word  should  perplex  others  as  at  first  it  did 
me,  let  me  say  that  in  those  days,  all  men  between 
certain  ages  were  “trained  ” in  the  open  street  or  road- 
way, every  spring  and  fall;  learning  to  defend  their 
native  land.  In  old-time  receipt  books  “training  gin- 
gerbread” is  as  carefully  set  down,  as  “Election  Cake.” 
“ Sunday . We  did  not  go  to  Church  today,  the 
weather  not  being  good.  I looked  over  hymns,  worked 
at  my  day  book,  and  read  one  of  Chalmer’s  Sermons. 
Spent  the  day  very  happily.” 

“Study  and  Blair.  Mr.  Bagioli  came.  I continue 
to  read  the  Life  of  Napoleon.  Father  began  the  Bride 
of  Lammermoor  this  evening,  for,  thank  fortune,  we 
have  at  last  got  all  Scott’s  novels.” 

“I  studied  and  read  Blair  as  usual.  I have  finished 
‘Paolo  e Virginia.’  I have  been  7 months  about  it, 
which  is  a reasonable  time,  I think.” 

11  Nov.  30th.  There  was  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  to- 
day: there  will  not  be  another  in  57  years.  I should 
be  an  old  woman  if  I live  to  see  the  next.  We  have 
passed  the  day  pleasantly  enough  in  the  library. 
I have  looked  over  hymns  and  read  a sermon  of 
Chalmers.” 

It  is  amusing  to  see  how  the  evening  reading  stands 
out  in  importance. 

“We  finished  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor  this  evening.  ” 
“We  began  the  Legend  of  Montrose.” 

Another  day  comes  this  word  about  another  of  our 
happy  bits  of  education. 

“Yesterday  a great  number  of  the  Museum  of  Paint- 


Dressmakers. 


i33 


Young  Fairyland 

ing  & Sculpture  came  home,  and  there  is  a fund  of 
amusement  for  a week.” 

This  was  a French  publication  for  which  my  father  had 
subscribed . It  came  out  in  pamphlet  form ; each  number 
with  etchings  of  three  or  four  of  the  great  pictures  or 
statues  of  the  world,  and  brief  letter  press  notices  of  the 
same.  So  that  in  our  far  off  home  we  could  learn  to 
know  the  chief  masterpieces  by  sight,  and  to  recognise 
them  when  referred  to  in  books  or  talk.  And  in  the 
evenings  it  was  a great  joy  for  me  to  kneel  in  a chair  by 
my  father,  at  the  table,  while  he  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  the  little  brown  books,  and  commented  and 
explained. 

“Dec.  24th.  So  at  last  I have  made  a break  in  my 
journal,  which  I was  so  determined  not  to  do.  Well  at 
least  I have  not  lost  much.  I have  gone  on  with  my 
studies  as  usual,  and  we  have  finished  The  Legend  of 
Montrose,  and  begun  Count  Robert  of  Paris.  Tonight 
we  are  to  go  to  Mrs.  H.  Bogert’s,  which  I do  not  at  all 
covet.  However  there’s  no  help  for  it,  so  I must  do  as 
well  as  I can.” 

‘ ‘ Dec.  2 5th.  Last  night  Anna  gave  Aunty  her  Christ- 
mas present,  because  she  was  in  immediate  need  of  it — 
a handsome  worked  lace  cape.” 

I remember  so  well,  not  the  cape  but  the  giving.  I 
was  wearing  a little  dress  of  crimson  crape,  made  from 
one  of  my  mother’s,  and  the  signal  for  me  to  run  and 
fetch  the  cape,  was  when  my  sister  clapped  her  hands 
and  said: 

“Fly,  red  bird!” 

The  journal  goes  on. 

“We  went  to  Mrs.  Bogert’s  some  time  before  any- 
body else,  but  at  last  they  began  to  pour  in,  and  I began 
to  wish  myself  anywhere  else.  Though  it  was  only 


134 


Susan  Warner 


a family  party,  there  were  a good  many, — all  the  Bo- 
gerts,  and  all  the  Kneelands ; and  when  at  last  the  room 
became  pretty  full,  and  the  noises  loud,  I became  half 
crazy  with  the  light  and  the  figures  passing  before  me, 
and  so  many  talking  on  all  sides ; I felt  as  if  I could  fly. 
At  last  Aunty  got  me  by  her,  and  I was  better,  but 
when  her  attention  was  turned  from  me  I was  worse 
again. 

“This  morning  I read  in  one  thing  or  another,  till 
Father  who  had  been  out  returned  and  I was  presented 
with  a handsome  boa,  and  Sprague’s  Letters;  Anna, 
with  a little  book  of  Mrs.  Hemans’  poems.  I put  as 
good  a face  upon  the  matter  as  I could,  but  I am  afraid 
I did  not  look  very  gracious  for  I was  terribly  cha- 
grined. Father  went  upstairs,  and  I took  my  boa  and 
book  and  went  down  in  the  parlour  where  I staid  all 
the  morning,  swallowing  my  disappointment  as  I might. 
My  present  this  year  cost  indeed  twice  as  much  as  it 
did  last  year ; but  I cared  not  at  all  for  my  boa,  and  very 
little  for  Sprague’s  Letters,  which  is  a serious  though 
a very  excellent  book.  I thought  Anna’s  preferable. 
This  Christmas  has  not  passed  so  pleasantly  as  did  the 
last,  nor  half  so  pleasantly  as  I had  expected.” 

“Feb.  22nd.  So  there  is  at  last  a break  of  many 
weeks  in  my  journal,  against  which  I guarded  so  care- 
fully for  a long  time.  But  now  I have  some  things 
worth  putting  down,  and  I resume.  I have  been  very 
busy  and  did  not  know  when  to  find  a time  for  my 
journal,  and  even  now’  I do  not  expect  to  wrrite  regu- 
larly.” After  some  details  about  a visit  and  playing 
duets,  she  goes  on:  “The  next  day  Miss  Ward  and  her 

tw’o  nieces  called  and  asked  us  to  tea  there  that  evening. 
Father  and  I w’ent.  There  v’as  no  one  there  but  Miss 
Ward,  twro  of  her  brothers,  and  Julia  Ward  and  a 


Young  Fairyland  135 

younger  sister.  I had  a pleasant  evening.  Julia  Ward 
played  and  sang;  I could  do  neither  for  want  of  notes, 
but  of  course  was  not  sorry  for  that.  We  had  a good 
deal  of  conversation  about  various  books  and  authors, 
study,  practice,  masters,  and  so  forth.  Miss  Julia 
criticised  my  saying  ‘mighty  pretty,’  and  ‘one  and 
t’other’ ; and  said  some  things  which  rather  made  me 
wonder;  such  as  that  ‘novels  only  shewed  one  the  ro- 
mance of  life,  not  the  reality’;  that  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  love  in  the  world  now,  that  it  was  all  calcula- 
tion, that  marriage  for  love  was  quite  obsolete,  and  that 
she  wished  she  had  been  bom  a hundred  years  ago; 
said  laughingly,  to  be  sure,  but  which  sounded  rather 
strangely,  in  my  ears.” 

This  for  my  sister,  to  whom  falsetto  was  as  foreign  as 
Choctaw,  and  with  her  head  in  a rosy  dream  of  fiction 
half  the  time!  She  had  a quick  enough  relish  of  the 
really  droll  and  humorous,  though  sometimes  too  mat- 
ter-of-fact to  lend  herself  to  it  at  once.  Not  given  to 
jesting  herself,  and  having  little  use  for  it  in  other 
people.  The  next  bit  is  very  characteristic. 

‘‘I  am  quite  busy  with  my  Italian,  but  am  still  in 
lLe  Mie  Prigioni,’  which  I like  very  well.  I am  how- 
ever in  a hurry  to  finish  it,  and  begin  Metastasio,  Tasso, 
or  Ariosto,  which  I have  not  yet  determined.  I have 
finished  the  first  volume  of  Karnes,  but  the  Life  of  Napo- 
leon has  been  neglected  some  time.  I have  looked 
through  Bourvienne’s  Memoirs  of  Napoleon  which  was 
lent  us  by  our  pretty  neighbour  Mrs.  W.  Clark.  But  I 
can  write  no  more  now,  for  I am  writing  in  an  uneasy 
position  at  a little  table  which  makes  me  bend  over,  and 
I want  to  go  and  read  Shakespeare  by  firelight.” 

Is  it  something  “Fifteen”  does  now,  I wonder? 

March  ist.  I have  not  studied  very  hard  this  week ; 


136 


Susan  Warner 


I come  on  slowly  with  Silvio  Pellico.  I have  neg- 
lected singing  a good  deal,  and  have  not  read  Kames 
much.  I have  lately  read  ‘Henry  VIII,’  and  ‘Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,'  which  have  amused  me  not  a 
little.  My  piano  has  lately  pleased  me,  and  I have 
improved  sensibly,  I think." 

“ March  8th.  We  drank  tea  at  Mrs.  Robinson’s.  I 
amused  myself  most  of  the  evening  with  an  annual." 

She  would  do  this ; and  while  it  did  not  greatly  matter 
in  the  house  of  an  old  friend,  Aunt  Fanny  found  it  hard 
to  keep  the  habit  within  those  bounds. 

“We  have  finished  Kenilworth,  which  I don’t  like  at 
all,  and  we  have  begun  the  Pirate  which  I think  we 
shall  like  much;  for  besides  one  evening  reading,  I 
have  looked  ahead  as  far  as  to  the  end  of  the  book;  a 
common  way  of  mine,  but  a very  poor  one." 

Speaking  of  certain  festivities  in  prospect  and  a 
promised  visit  from  my  uncle,  she  says : 

“ March  15th.  All  went  to  church  to-day,  except 
myself.  I read  a sermon  of  Chalmers,  and  some  of  my 
mother’s  letters,  and  spent  the  time  pleasantly  enough. 
Who  is  so  happy  as  I?  With  the  ball,  and  Uncle 
Thomas,  and  the  pictures,  but  more  of  the  pictures 
another  time." 

‘ ‘ 2Qth.  Kames  of  course  comes  on  slowly.  I should 
like  to  finish  it  before  the  ball.  I should  also  like  to 
cure  myself  of  a certain  trick  of  rubbing  my  fingers 
which  gives  great  offence  to  my  good  friends.  Whether 
I shall  do  both  or  either,  remains  to  be  seen." 

“Father  brought  me  a volume  of  ‘Corneille’  from 
the  library,  and  I have  read  part  of  the  comedy  of 
Melita,  only  part,  for  I find  puzzling  passages  frequently 
and  so  get  on  slowly.  I like  it  very  well,  and  probably 
shall  like  it  better  when  I can  read  it  with  more  ease." 


i37 


Young  Fairyland 

One  stormy  Sunday — 

“Anna  and  I have  spent  a good  deal  of  time  singing 
Psalm  tunes.  We  sang  till  Aunty  not  only  was  tired, 
but  gave  us  to  understand  as  much.  We  looked  at 
coins  too,  and  I have  read  a paper  in  the  Rambler.  It 
is  clearing  off  brightly,  and  I ’ve  a mind  to  take  a tramp 
to  the  greenhouse,  if  Anna  is  not  afraid  of  wet  feet.  So 
goodbye  to  my  Journal  for  the  present.” 

And  now  comes  in  more  prominently  another  of  our 
home  delights. 

“We  (Father  inclusive)  rode  uptown  to  a Mr. 
Hayward’s,  where  we  staid  near  an  hour  looking  at 
pictures.  There  was  a St.  Sebastian  that  I liked  very 
muchindeed,  and  a St.  Cecilia  that  was  my  next  favour- 
ite, and  a portrait  of  a child  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
that  everyone  but  me  liked  very  much.” 

The  three  afterwards  became  our  own ; for  long,  be- 
loved factors  in  our  daily  life.  The  St.  Cecilia  hung 
above  my  darling’s  piano  for  many  a happy  year;  the 
St.  Sebastian  grew  to  be  a friend  at  whose  face  we  always 
glanced  as  we  passed  back  and  forth ; and  young  Hanni- 
bal with  his  great  serious  eyes,  won  all  hearts. 

“We  afterwards  rode  round  to  St.  Mark’s  Place,  to 
see  how  our  stable  that  is  building  was  coming  on,  and 
then  we  went  over  to  Brooklyn  to  Mr.  Haworth’s,  to 
see  our  own  pictures.  I think  we  staid  there  nearly 
two  hours.” 

“ April  26th.  Father  brought  me  Eton’s  Botany  on 
Thursday,  and  flowers  have  occupied  me  a good  deal. 
Miss  Miller  was  so  pleased  with  my  book  of  flowers, 
that  she  asked  me  to  let  her  take  it  home  to  shew  to  a 
certain  Dr.  Torrey.  She  did  so,  and  on  sending  it  back, 
the  Dr.  gave  me  eleven  new  plants,  dried,  with  their 
names.  These  I have  glued  on  paper  though  not  in  my 


138 


Susan  Warner 


book,  for  I have  begun  botanising  now,  on  a larger 
scale.  To  hold  my  flowers  I have  made  eight  books, 
with  green  ribbon  and  pasteboard,  and  I must  make 
eighteen  more,  one  for  each  class.  Mighty  pleasant 
work  it  is  too.  My  head  has  been  full  of  it  for  a week  or 
ten  days.” 

Those  last  words  are  so  like  her! — afraid  of  mis- 
stating the  smallest  thing.  If  ever  anyone  wore  the 
image  of  Truth  round  her  neck,  she  did. 

“I  have  not  finished  Karnes.  We  shall  not  be  here 
another  Sunday,  and  I am  sure  I am  not  sorry.” 

Then  comes  in  a glimpse  of  an  old  time  slow  trip  up 
the  river. 

“ Hudson,  June  ioth.  We  came  up  in  the  night 
boat,  which  was  anything  but  agreeable.  How  we 
should  have  managed  without  candy  and  figs  I don’t 
know,  for  we  found  no  library  on  board,  and  I had  a 
cold  besides.  We  did  not  undress,  though  we  lay 
down  and  slept  for  some  hours;  but  it  was  not  very 
comfortable,  in  a silk  frock  and  great  stiff  sleeves. 
To  crown  all,  we  got  up  an  hour  or  two  before  we 
reached  Hudson,  and  sat  there  in  that  dismal  cabin 
during  that  time.  But  as  soon  as  we  landed  our 
troubles  were  over.” 

At  once  books  come  to  the  front.  The  next  day : 

“I  looked  through  Six  months  in  a Convent.” — “We 
found  the  Memoirs  of  Hannah  More  here,  but  I did  not 
read  a great  deal  in  it.” — “A  few  days  before  we  came 
up  the  river  Father  gave  me  permission  to  read  Don 
Quixote,  but  my  anticipations  gave  me  more  pleasure 
than  the  work  itself  did.  I had  expected  no  small 
gratification  from  it ; but  I could  not  find  it  interesting 
or  amusing,  could  seldom  laugh;  and  after  looking 
through  part  of  the  volume  laid  it  aside.” — The  entries 


Young  Fairyland  139 

just  here  are  (for  me)  confused  with  shorthand;  but 
this  is  in  substance  what  she  says : 

“Somehow  I don’t  greatly  take  to  the  Memoirs  of 
Hannah  More,  though  I suppose  I ought  to ; and  finding 
time  hang  rather  heavy  upon  my  hands,  I go  to  painting 
card  babies.  I have  made  a good  many,  and  spent  a 
good  deal  of  time  at  it,  but  now  I really  feel  ready  and 
willing  to  go  to  work  again  in  tamest ; to  read  Italian, 
and  play  a good  deal.  I have  not  seen  my  piano  for 
a month,  and  I quite  want  to  touch  it  again.” 

“West  Point , July  8th.  It  will  be  a fortnight  to- 
morrow since  we  came  here,  and  an  odd  time  we  have 
had  of  it.  Aunt  N.  and  her  three  children  came  two 
days  after  us. — We  three  children  presently  struck  up  a 
story  which  lasted  until  the  morning  of  the  day  they 
left  West  Point.  Fine  fun  we  have  had  of  it,  but  it  is 
nonsensical  amusement  after  all.  I question  if  it  is  not 
the  last  story  I shall  ever  talk.  Indeed  it  is  a chance  if 
we  have  an  opportunity  again.  The  greater  part  of 
one  day  we  spent  out  on  the  rocks,  gathering  flowers, 
making  wreaths,  and  telling  stories.” 

So  passed  the  impossible  visions,  with  their  most 
improbable  heroes;  as  life,  and  its  conditions,  took 
form  and  colour.  It  was  the  last  story  “talked,”  until 
she  spoke  in  the  hearing  of  the  great  Public,  sixteen 
years  later  on.  But  she  was  her  old  self  still:  “afraid 
of  the  gunfire,”  and  missing  a walk  therefore,  figures 
in  the  next  day’s  record.  “Afraid”  is  not  the  right 
word:  it  was  keen  dislike  of  the  sudden,  sharp  report. 
Nerves,  of  all  sorts,  were  in  great  force  with  her  just 
then ; and  it  is  strange  to  read  some  notes  of  those  days, 
remembering  that  afterwards,  she  was  very  fond  of 
society,  and  of  strangers.  She  had  been  left  for  a time 
alone  with  my  Uncle,  then  Chaplain  at  the  Point. 


140 


Susan  Warner 


‘ ‘ Quite  a new  thing  in  my  history  to  be  sure.  I was  a 
little  afraid  before  they  went  that  I should  be  lonesome, 
but  I have  felt  nothing  of  it.  I have  drawn  a good  many 
card  babies,  and  read  a good  part  of  the  first  volume  of 
St.  Valentine’s  Day,  and  spent  a while  ever}7  day  at  the 
piano.  And  we  have  walked  every  evening  except 
Sunday,  and  have  had  company  several  times.  Monday 
morning  I had  to  go  down  to  see  Mr.  A. — , and  in  the 
afternoon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  A — called  when  Uncle  Thomas 
wras  out.  As  I was  asked  for,  I went  down  and  managed 
to  sit  still  and  talk  after  a fashion , for  five  minutes.  Mr. 
A — w’alked  w*ith  us  that  evening.  Tuesday  Mrs.  E — 
called  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  K — . I wras  obliged  to  dress  and 
go  down,  though  it  wns  not  particularly  agreeable.  In 
the  afternoon,  we  wTent  to  the  Hotel  to  see  Mrs.  E. — , 
and  meeting  Mr.  Alden,  Uncle  Thomas  asked  him  along. 
From  the  Hotel  w~e  went  to  Kosciusko’s  Garden,  and 
called  at  Mrs.  Alden’s  on  our  way  home.  Last  night 
we  took  a good  wnlk  alone.” 

They  wnre  dear  companions,  those  two. 

11  Friday.  I had  a great  escape  last  night.  I had 
like  to  have  had  to  make  tea  for  Mr.  Alden  and  another 
gentleman;  how7  I ever  should  have  got  through  it  I 
don’t  know’ ; for  though  I have  done  great  things  lately, 
this  would  have  been  w7orse  than  all.  Luckily  I w7as 
not  put  to  the  trial,  for  a certain  queer  clergyman  by 
name  Mr.  S — , came  in  just  before  tea,  so  the  others 
took  their  leave.  I did  not  mind  making  tea  for  Mr. 
Sunderland.  In  the  evening  Uncle  Thomas  came  in 
with  four  young  gentlemen  to  w7hom  he  wdshed  to  read 
certain  papers.  There  wras  I,  wdthout  Aunt  Fanny  to 
shelter  me,  obliged  to  stand  up  and  be  formally  intro- 
duced to  the  four,  one  after  another,  a thing  calculated 
to  shake  my  nerves  a little.  However  I stood  it, 


Thomas  Warner 

Chaplain  and  Professor  U.  S.  Military  Academy,  1828-1838 
From  a Miniature 


UBMKV 
OF  THE 

U‘ "VERSIT7  OF  U1W  s 


Iis 


Young  Fairyland  141 

and  then  got  the  second  volume  of  St.  Valentine’s  Day 
and  a lamp  lit  in  the  other  room  and  sat  myself  down  to 
my  reading.  But  Uncle  Thomas  was  reading  aloud  and 
loudly,  and  after  looking  on  the  same  page  of  my  book 
for  some  time,  I came  upstairs.  Neither  there  was  I 
to  have  peace,  for  something  like  a wasp  began  to  fly 
about,  and  I could  not  be  very  easy  with  such  a guest ; 
so  I was  not  sorry,  as  may  be  supposed,  when  the  gentle- 
men departed,  and  I was  allowed  to  come  down  and  read 
in  comfort.  Then  I sat  till  near  11  o’clock.” 

She  was  then  exactly  sixteen,  and  this  is  her  girl 
likeness,  to  the  life.  Persecuted  by  uniforms  and  wasps, 
and  carrying  St.  Valentine’s  Day  through  it  all. 
“What  wasted  opportunities,”  some  other  girls  may 
say.  But  ah  no!  There  is  nothing  sweeter  or  fairer 
than  utter  girlhood,  with  its  shy  eyes.  Happy  those 
to  whom  it  comes  once:  it  can  never  come  again. 

There  is  now  a break  in  the  journal;  and  it  may  help 
bring  back  the  good  opinion  of  some  other  girls,  if  I 
tell  that  one  of  the  first  entries  under  the  next  date, 
(Canaan,  Aug.  13th)  is  this: 

“I  was  sorry  enough  to  leave  West  Point.”  Adding, 
“but  I have  been  happy  since  I came  here,  as  usual.  I 
have  been  pretty  regular  with  my  Italian,  but  have  done 
nothing  else.  On  Monday  I had  24  chapters  of  Silvio 
Pellico  to  read,  which,  at  my  usual  rate,  would  be 
finished  on  the  Saturday  of  next  week;  and  when  it  is 
done,  then  comes  Metastasio,  which  has  of  late  been  the 
subject  of  my  waking  dreams.” 

“ August  14th.  Father  came  up  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, to  our  great  joy  of  course.  In  the  evening  they 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  eat  something ; I was  sitting  in 
the  other  room  and  heard  Father  say  he  had  bought 
himself  a pair  of  spectacles.  I was  primed  for  it. 


142 


Susan  Warner 


and  darted  upstairs,  where  I cried  as  hard  as  I could 
for  some  time.  When  the  folks  came  up  I pulled  my 
hair  down  over  my  face  to  hide  my  red  nose  and  swelled 
eyes,  but  they  suspected  something  was  the  matter, 
though  I did  not  tell  them  what.  I had  another 
shorter  fit  after  I got  to  bed,  and  fairly  cried  till  I 
could  no  more.  Last  night  I had  another  crying  fit, 
but  no  matter  about  what.” 

Those  stormy  outbursts  in  Ellen  Montgomery  with 
which  the  critics  found  fault,  were  well  known  to  my 
sister.  Not  that  Ellen  was  at  all  a portrait  of  herself, 
but  the  two  had  this  one  point  in  common.  When  I 
was  a little  child  I remember  her  rushing  upstairs  and 
throwing  herself,  head  first,  down  on  the  bed,  perfectly 
speechless  with  grief  and  excitement,  unable  for  some 
time  to  tell  that  strange  dogs  were  worrying  Bess — her 
pet  kitten. 

Where  tempests  are  possible,  gleams  and  glooms  are 
the  natural  every  day  weather.  One  day  it  is  this. 

‘ ‘ Uncle  Thomas  departed  this  morning,  but  his 
visit  though  short  w^as  sweet,  that  is  to  say  we  had  a 
good  deal  of  fun ; which  is  to  be  expected  where  Uncle 
Thomas  and  Aunt  Fanny  are.” — Next  day  comes 
this: 

“I  was  sufficiently  sombre  yesterday*  sufficiently 
sombre  I am  always,  and  sometimes  rather  too  much  so. 
I have  so  many  ‘black  ideas*. ” 

No  hint  as  to  what  they  were. 

“I  think  I shall  rejoice  to  get  home  again;  to  my 
piano  and  to  the  pictures,  and  to  our  own  house,  which 
I shall  be  glad  to  see  put  in  order.* * 

‘ ‘ Aug.  25th.  Aunty  advises  me  to  tell  no  more  of  the 
faults  I commit,  and  thinks  that  then  I shall  be  more 
apt  to  cure  myself  of  them;  that  telling  them  eases  my 


143 


Young  Fairyland 

conscience,  as  confession  eases  that  of  a Catholic.  I 
don’t  know  but  she  is  half  right.” 

“Sep.  jth.  Father  came  from  Albany  on  Thursday 
night  of  last  week.  That  was  a moment  of  great 
surprise  and  joy  when  all  of  a sudden  I saw  him, 
through  the  open  door,  in  the  kitchen.  Such  joy  can- 
not come  often,  and  cannot  last  long.  He  went  home 
Wednesday  morning.  Perhaps  when  he  comes  again 
it  will  be  to  take  us  home.  I am  sure  I shall  not  be 
sorry.  I have  scarcely  ever  been  such  a sobersides,  as 
since  I have  been  here  this  summer.  While  Father 
was  here,  on  two  evenings,  I had  such  a fit  of  the  blues, 
and  I did  cry  bitterly  enough.  Nonsensical  enough,  to 
be  sure.” — But  again  there  is  no  word  of  the  cause. 

I have  said  that  in  those  early  days  she  cared  but 
little  for  the  natural  world ; for  it  was  what  she  said  of 
herself.  “My  eyes  were  never  really  opened,  till  I 
began  to  write.” — That  was  probably  true:  and  yet  the 
old  journals  tell  of  eyes  all  ready  for  the  wider  vision. 

‘ ‘ Emma  Whiting  spent  the  afternoon  here  yesterday, 
and  Aunt  Nancy  and  I and  the  children  set  out  to  walk 
home  with  her  in  the  evening.  It  was  a most  lovely 
evening.  All  along  the  western  horizon  the  sky  was 
of  a rich  orange  colour,  which  cast  a beautiful  tint  over 
the  landscape ; and  on  the  other  side  the  moon,  almost 
at  the  full,  rose  just  above  the  trees,  large,  bright  and 
perfectly  clear.  It  was  not  very  warm,  but  mild.” 

“ Sep . 15th.  I finished  Le  Mie  Prigioni  yesterday, 
thank  fortune.  Glad  enough  am  I.  I wonder  what 
will  come  next;  Metastasio,  or  Botta.  Like  enough 
the  first  would  be  more  agreeable,  and  the  last  more 
useful.” 

One  day  came  a brush  with  her  beloved  Truth. 
“Aunt  Fanny  had  gone  to  ride  and  when  she  came 


144 


Susan  Warner 


back,  Miss  Emma,  without  being  asked  got  on  the  horse 
and  rode  round  the  meadow,  and  finally  out  into  the 
road,  quite  to  my  discomfiture.  I told  her  I did  not 
want  her  to  go  out  of  the  gate,  and  when  she  asked  me 
why,  I scarcely  knew  what  to  say.  I looked  on  the 
ground,  and,  as  the  children  told  me  afterwards,  turned 
red  and  then  white.  I hope  I shall  never  be  caught  so 
again,  for  I told  her  I wanted  her  in  the  house,  and  so  I 
did  in  one  way,  but  of  course  I meant  she  should  take  it 
in  another,  and  that  I hope  never  to  do  again.” 

Not  a heinous  social  offence  in  these  days,  but  the 
nearest  approach  I ever  knew  my  sister  make,  to 
clipping  the  truth. 

“George  brought  me  from  the  Comer  an  excellent 
letter  from  my  dear  father  which  rejoiced  me.  It 
made  me  laugh,  and  cry  too.” 

11  Oct.  6th.  Here  we  are  at  home  again,  at  New  York, 
to  my  satisfaction.  I don’t  want  to  leave  home  again  in 
a good  while.  We  have  not  done  painting  yet,  of  course 
no  carpets  down,  nor  furniture  here,  that  is,  new 
furniture.  The  basement  room  is  comfortable  how- 
ever, so  we  get  along  well  enough,  and  tomorrow  I 
hope  for  my  piano.  But  I may  as  well  go  back  to  the 
first  of  last  week.  On  Sunday  we  went  to  church  and 
heard  two  delightful  sermons  from  a Mr.  Cushing.  It  is 
very  seldom  that  one  meets  with  such  a minister. 
Aunty  and  I were  very  much  pleased. 

“On  Monday  morning  we  decided  to  go  to  Lebanon, 
to  see  if  Sabrina  could  be  prevailed  on  to  come  back. 
Mary  Whiting  ran  out  as  we  passed  Christopher  Whit- 
ing’s, and  asked  if  we  should  go  the  next  day,  as  Father 
had  come,  she  had  seen  him!  What  joy!  Thursday 
we  went  out  to  Hudson,  Friday  we  came  down  the 
river.” 


145 


Young  Fairyland 

“ Oct  ioth.  We  have  not  done  painting  yet,  but  thank 
fortune,  we  have  almost  done,  shall  get  through  next 
week  I suppose.  But  it  is  beautifully  done,  when  it  is 
done.  I have  had  my  piano  more  than  a week  and 
have  made  pretty  good  use  of  it.  Mr.  Metz  came  here 
the  other  day;  we  were  in  the  parlour  admiring  and  I 
was  with  my  sleeves  rolled  up  above  my  elbows,  having 
been  washing  china.  How  we  did  look.  That  day  I 
washed  all  the  set  of  white  china,  and  Aunty  wiped  it : 
it  took  us  somewhere  about  four  hours.  I have  looked 
through  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  and  looked  into  Shakes- 
peare, and  the  Library  of  Entertaining  Knowledge. 
Father  has  begun  reading  Milton  to  us  evenings.  I 
like  it ; how  much  more  than  I expected/ * 

“Oct.  igth.  The  very  day  after  our  arrival  we  sallied 
forth  and  did  a deal  of  business.  We  went  to  Chester’s 
and  chose  carpets  for  the  parlours,  the  library,  and 
the  basement  room.  Since  then  we  have  chosen  the 
parlour  curtains,  and  been  to  Copcut’s,  times  without 
number,  to  see  about  the  furniture.  On  the  first 
floor  the  furniture  is  to  be  all  in  crimson  and  drab; 
carpets,  curtains,  chairs  and  sofa,  cushions,  oil-cloth, 
and  stair  carpet.  In  the  back  parlour,  indeed,  the 
curtains  and  cushions  are  crimson  without  any  drab. 
Beautiful  it  will  be,  to  be  sure;  but  the  best  of  all  are 
our  pictures.  The  only  one  at  present  in  a frame  ready 
to  hang  up,  is  the  St.  Cecilia;  and  words,  my  words  at 
least,  cannot  express  its  beauty.  It  is  splendid.  It  is 
called  a Domenichino;  no  matter  whom  it  is  by,  say  I. 
But  I forgot  myself — there  are  two  others  in  order. 
One  is  a St.  Sebastian;  which  I like  very,  very  much, 
though  not  equal  to  the  St.  Cecilia.  It  was  in  a collec- 
tion that  was  last  spring  exhibited  in  the  Academy, 
and  is  called  a Murillo.  The  other  is  a little  landscape 


146 


Susan  Warner 


by  Wilson,  very  pretty  indeed,  but  of  course,  nothing 
like  the  former  two.  For  my  part  I don’t  care  half  so 
much  for  the  landscape  as  for  figures.  I have  studied 
none  since  I came  home,  except  that  once  or  twice  I 
read  a little  in  Anacharsis.  I have  however  arranged 
in  my  head  a plan  of  studying  something  like  the  follow- 
ing— at  9,  practice — 10,  Italian — 11,  singing  and  prac- 
tice— 12,  Euclid  or  Paley — 1,  singing  and  practice — 2, 
French.  How  far  I shall  follow  this  plan  is  doubtful ; I 
hope  neverthelesss  to  conform  to  it  in  some  measure.” 

‘ ‘ Oct . 26th.  Father  brought  home  some  numbers  of 
a new  work  he  has  taken,  ‘Illustrations  of  Modem 
Sculpture,’  a splendid  thing,  beautifully  got  up.  I 
amused  myself  this  afternoon  with  looking  them  over. 
We  are  rich  in  such  things,  I think ; and  assuredly  we 
receive  a great  deal  of  pleasure  from  them.  How  are 
those  to  be  pitied  who  have  no  such  source  of  enjoy- 
ment.” 

No  French  that  day,  but  “near”  two  hours’  practice. 
Life  just  then  was  not  quite  what  the  sailors  call  “close- 
hauled”  ; and  new  resolutions  came  and  went. 

“Nov.  gth.  I have  been  home,  I believe,  six  weeks, 
and  have  scarcely  done  anything  worth  doing,  except 
near  two  hours  a day  of  playing.  I have  done  that  too 
as  a pleasure,  not  a duty.  I have  no  reason  to  be  satis- 
fied with  myself  ever  since  I have  been  home.  I have, 
I hope,  started  today  to  do  better.  I have  played  near- 
ly two  hours,  held  Anacharsis  in  hand  for  one  hour, 
and  ironed  two  night-gowns.  ” (Through  what  queer 
household  land-slide  this  came  about,  is  unknown.) 
“Suppose  I were  to  read  Scott’s  Life  of  Napoleon  every 
day  from  dinner  to  dusk?”  (Not  a long  stint  in  winter 
days,  after  the  old  three  o’clock  dinner!)  “Father  is 
reading  ‘ Ormond’  to  us  at  present ; and  we  talk  of  Pope’s 


i47 


Young  Fairyland 

Homer,  when  we  have  finished  this.  I have  got  no  Ital- 
ian book  yet.  It  won’t  be  Metastasio  I fancy.” 

11  Dec.  22th.  How  long  my  poor  journal  has  been 
neglected.  A whole  month  and  more.  But  I am 
determined  to  go  on  now.  Anach arsis  has  not  been 
attended  to  at  all  since  my  last  journal.  ‘Ormond’ 
was  long  ago  finished.  Pope’s  Homer  and  Dryden’s 
Virgil  were  both  tried,  and  found  so  utterly  unpala- 
table that  we  gave  them  both  up.  We  are  reading 
nothing  now.  I have  got  my  Italian  books. — Dante 
and  Tasso,  beautiful  editions.  I take  up  the  latter 
first,  but  have  read  only  two  stanzas,  which  I have  not 
found  difficult.  Things  of  more  moment  have  befallen 
me.  A sister  of  Prof.  Hackley  has  come  to  spend  the 
winter  with  him.  We  were  not  long  in  getting  ac- 
quainted, and  I do  like  her  very  much.  Mr.  H.  is 
teaching  me,  along  with  her,  and  one  other  girl, 
Drawing  and  Mathematics.  We  have  not  indeed  got 
to  Mathematics,  but  are  preparing  with  Arithmetic. 
On  the  other  hand  I am  teaching  Sophia  music ! So  I 
have  my  hands  full.” 

Like  her,  always : new  plans,  new  studies,  new  people, 
in  the  front  rank  of  interest.  With  this,  the  old  scru- 
pulous wording.  She  practises  “near”  two  hours,  and 
“believes”  she  has  been  home  six  weeks. 

“Jan.  io , i8j6.  As  I am  now  free  from  my  troubles” 
(what  they  were  I cannot  guess)  “I  hope  to  do  some- 
thing. If  wishing  would  do  any  good,  I would  wish 
the  winter  not  so  far  advanced,  but  as  it  is  I can  only 
make  the  best  of  what  remains,  and  if  I live  I hope  not 
to  be  idle.  I have  not  yet  finished  my  lamp  mat,  but 
am  luckily  in  the  humour  of  so  doing.  I have  read  but 
two  stanzas  of  Tasso,  and  scarcely  six  pages  of  French, 
since  I came  home.  Practising  indeed,  has  not  on  the 


148 


Susan  Warner 


whole  been  neglected.  I arranged  a plan  of  occupation 
for  my  hours  the  other  night,  and  here  it  is. 

10.  to  11.  French. 

11.  to  12.  Music. 

12.  to  1.  Mathematics. 

1.  to  2i  Drawing. 

2.  to  3.  Music. 

‘ ‘ Afternoon  at  the  U ni versit y . T asso  in  the  evening. 

“From  past  experience  there  might  be  a doubt 
whether  this  rule  will  be  strictly  conformed  to.  Nous 
verrons.” 

“Jan.  1 7.  At  all  events  I have  not  done  much  this 
week.  I have  sewed  on  my  mat,  however,  and  prac- 
tised, but  how  much  I don’t  know.  I have  read  no 
French,  done  no  Arithmetic,  drawn  none,  taken  no  les- 
sons, and  have  read,  I believe,  three  stanzas  of  Tasso. 
My  rule  is  one  stanza  a day,  but  I hope  to  do  better  than 
that.  I read  one  and  part  of  another  yesterday.  This 
week  we  have  finished  the  ‘Betrothed’  and  begun  the 
‘Talisman.’  The  first  has  pleased  us  much,  and  the 
second  pleases  me  more.  A.  T.  dined  here  to-day; 
pretty  so  so.  The  same  evening  wTe  went  over  to 
Judge  B’s  and  sat  an  hour;  that  was  pretty  so  so 
too.” 

“ Jan.  31.  Last  evening  we  drank  tea  by  invita- 
tion at  Mrs.  Codwise’s.  I played  two  pieces,  but  there 
was  not  much  satisfaction  in  it,  for  it  was  a most 
wretched  piano,  a good  for  nothing  thing  without  any 
power ; thrum  as  I might,  I could  n’t  draw  enough  sound 
from  it.  However,  I got  along  very  well,  and  was  n’t 
troubled  with  timidity.  Helen  Beekman  was  there, 
and  the  two  Miss  Codwises,  and  Miss  Livingston. 
Mrs.  Codwise  (as  Aunty  afterwards  told  me)  sent  one  of 
her  nephews,  when  I was  playing,  to  turn  over  the 


149 


Young  Fairyland 

leaves  for  me,  to  see  whether  it  would  put  me  out ; I lost 
my  place,  and  Mrs.  Codwise  pulled  him  away.” 

‘ ‘ Feb.  8.  I do  mean  at  last,  and  after  such  an  interval 
to  resume  my  neglected  journal.  I took  so  much  pleas- 
ure lately,  in  reading  my  journal,  that  I wish  to  provide 
the  like  amusement  for  the  future.  We  are  pretty 
busy  now.  Mr.  H.  gives  us  good  long  lessons,  and  some- 
times we  have  enough  to  do  to  get  ready  for  the  after- 
noon. To  my  joy  it  has  not  been  weather  to-day  to 
allow  us  to  go  to  the  University,  so  I have  not  plagued 
myself  with  studying.  I am  making  an  index  to  the 
‘Museum’  (of  Painting  and  Sculpture)  and  worked  at 
that  for  some  time  this  morning.  I played  through 
also  a monstrous  hard  piece  of  music.  Oh  what  work 
it  is,  this  cold  weather. 

“Winter  is  passing  speedily  away;  Aunty  speaks  now 
and  then  about  spring;  but  winter  for  me;  cold  and 
dreary  though  it  be  without,  within  doors  I love  it 
better  than  summer.  I suppose  because  I love  being 
at  home  so  much  better  than  being  at  Canaan.  Last 
night  I made  a resolution  never  to  pass  a day  without 
reading  some  in  the  Bible.  And  I break  off  now  to 
keep  my  resolution  as  far  as  this  day  goes.” 

“Feb.  21.  Is  it  possible  that  I cannot  be  steady 
enough  to  write  regularly  in  my  journal?  But  the  fact 
is,  I have  business  plenty  on  my  hands  at  present.  We 
are  through  arithmetic,  and  have  begun  algebra.  I 
know  much  more  about  arithmetic  than  I did  before, 
and  that’s  one  thing  gained.  I have  begun  Ferguson’s 
Roman  Republic,  reading  it  aloud  to  Aunt  Fanny,  and 
if  we  live,  our  intention  is  to  go  through  Gibbon  in  the 
same  way.  I am  much  pleased  with  the  notion.  As 
for  practising,  I don’t  do  a vast  deal  of  it,  but  get  along 
pretty  well.  I am  now  going  on  with  my  mat.  I have 


Susan  Warner 


*5o 

not  drawn  much  lately.  I have  not  finished  my  cata- 
logue of  the  plates  in  the  Museum.” 

“ March  6.  I have  enough  to  do,  that  must  be 
acknowledged.  Incited  by  the  desire  of  working  a 
very  handsome  cape  for  myself,  and  being  obliged  first 
to  finish  several  things  already  on  hand,  I am  in  full 
progress  on  my  mat,  and  then  have  a cap-ruffle  and  an 
edging  to  do ; so  I sew  some  time  every  day.  Algebra 
gets  on  slowly,  ’cause  of  the  bad  weather  and  bad  walk- 
ing, and  drawing  is  in  the  same  predicament.  I don’t 
practise  a vast  deal,  my  catalogue  lags  terribly,  and  even 
Ferguson  goes  on  less  swimmingly  this  week  than  last. 
Nevertheless  among  them  all  I have  sufficient  employ- 
ment. 

‘ ‘ April  j.  If  I were  to  go  back  and  write  all  that  has 
happened  since  my  last  journal,  I might  almost  fill 
my  book,  and  I wish  they  were  all  down,  for  it  is  im- 
possible to  go  back  so  far  now,  and  many  things  have 
transpired.  I have  a new  piano,  about  which  I have 
been  in  twenty  minds,  but  I believe  I shall  finally  settle 
down  to  liking  it.”  (This  w^as  a Chickering — and  the 
liking  became  very  great.) 

“Father  has  bought  a pew  in  Dr.  Skinner’s  church, 
and  so  far  we  are  very  much  pleased.  We  heard  a 
sermon  this  morning  that  Uncle  Thomas  (wdio  is  here) 
pronounced  to  be  the  best  he  had  ever  heard  in  New 
York.  I hope  very  much  that  we  shall  not  be  dis- 
appointed as  we  were  in  Mr. — 

“Last  Thursday  and  Friday  we  were  out  a great 
deal.  One  day  we  went  to  Stew^art’s  and  ran  up  a bill 
of  a hundred  and  odd  dollars  in  an  hour  or  two.  Silks 
at  the  rate  of  $20.  a dress  (for  Aunty  and  me)  and  7 or 
8 shillings  a yard  for  muslins.  Prof.  Davies  and  his 
brother  drank  tea  here  evening  before  last,  and  dined 


Young  Fairyland  151 

here  yesterday.  I have  not  attended  lately  to  anything 
so  much  as  my  mat  and  my  piano.  The  mat  is  not 
yet  finished;  if  nothing  happens,  I expect  to  finish  it 
entirely  before  next  Sunday.  We  are  now  reading 
The  Fortunes  of  Nigel.” 

11  April  10th.  The  past  week  has  certainly  been  a 
happy  one  in  my  experience.  Several  pleasant  things 
have  occurred.  Tuesday  evening  Mrs.  Codwise  invited 
us  in  on  purpose  to  hear  a Miss  Hughes  sing.  We  went, 
Uncle  Thomas  and  all,  and  were  extremely  pleased.  It 
was  just  like  opera  singing,  and  not  only  a sweet  voice, 
but  a sweet  face,  and  a most  beautiful  manner:  not  any 
constraint  or  effort,  no  affectation.  I never  saw  a more 
engaging  young  person  than  Miss  Fanny  Hughes.  But 
all  my  pleasure  that  night  was  not  derived  from  her, 
there  were  Dr.  & Mrs.  Skinner,  the  former  of  whom 
especially  I was  most  glad  to  see.  We  all  liked  him 
still  better,  if  possible,  upon  a nearer  view.  And  there 
was  another  clergyman,  young,  with  a queer  name,  and 
forever  flourishing  his  hand,  which  I can’t  abide.  I 
believe  it  was  Thursday  that  Uncle  Thomas  invited  to 
come  here  in  the  evening  Mr.  Keyser  and  Mr.  Heidelberg : 
the  former  an  excellent  violin  player,  the  latter  a poor 
player  on  the  piano,  but  of  whom  Uncle  Thomas  has 
conceived  rather  a high  opinion.  They  came,  and  staid 
till  near  1 1 , playing  three  or  four  pieces  together,  and 
two  or  three  were  played  by  Mr.  Keyser  alone.  Even 
I played  a page  or  two  with  him.  I am  getting  more 
courageous.  We  like  Mr.  Keyser  very  much,  but  the 
other  is  nothing,  that  is  his  playing  is  nothing.” 

“ May  29th.  Many  things  have  come  round  since  my 
writing  last.  I finished  my  collar,  and  scalloped  six 
yards  of  ruffle  for  a cape.  Sophia  has  been  gone  some 
time.  Father,  Aunty  and  Anna  went  to  Hudson  more 


1 52 


Susan  Warner 


than  a fortnight  ago,  and  staid  several  days,  I was  left 
at  home  with  Mrs.  Cord,  who  has  been  here  sewing.  I 
was  n’t  lonesome,  and  kept  pretty  busy.  They  brought 
Ellen  home  with  them.  We  went  to  the  Woods’ 
Concert  last  week,  and  were  much  pleased — I,  very 
much.” 

“ June  3.  Uncle  Thomas  was  down  from  West  Point 
last  week  and  staid  several  days.  He  is  delighted  with 
the  prospect  of  doings  at  Constitution  Island  which 
Father  has  bought.  ‘Delighted’  is  too  feeble  an  ex- 
pression, he  is  rather  rapturous,  and  talks  of  resigning 
and  building  a lodge  for  himself  somewhere  just  by  the 
Island ; for  Father  contemplates  keeping  the  southern 
part  of  the  island,  and  building  a fine  house,  making  a 
sort  of  little  Paradise  of  the  grounds,  and  residing  there 
eight  months  of  the  year.” 

How  little  discernment  a buyer  has  at  first,  as  to  the 
capabilities  of  his  new  purchase!  For  what  “palace” 
could  ever  have  been  as  dear  to  us,  as  our  old  Revolu- 
tionary nondescript  house? — and  the  “little  Paradise” 
was  already  there,  “to  dress  and  to  keep.” 

So  comes  in  the  first  dim  prospect  of  our  future  life- 
long home;  as  different  from  the  later  reality,  as  it 
well  could  be.  Of  that  beautiful  handful  of  plans,  just 
one  came  true:  we  did  go  to  the  Island  to  live,  and 
it  was  Paradise ; though  not  of  our  making.  But  no 
visions  bom  of  town  life,  and  ease,  and  plenty,  ever 
figured  out  anything  so  rich  and  rare,  as  what — 
through  straits  and  need  and  difficulty — the  Lord 
vouchsafed  to  us,  among  our  rocks.  She  goes  on. 

“We  hope  to  go  to  West  Point  on  Thursday;  to  see 
Uncle  Thomas,  eat  strawberries,  and  explore  Constitu- 
tion Island.” 

“ June  1 6th.  West  Point.  We  came  here  Saturday 


i53 


Young  Fairyland 

morning.  We  were  long  coming  up ; it  was  the  Albany, 
a slow  boat,  and  there ’s  no  opposition  now,  so  it  was  I 
don’t  know  how  long  after  n,  when  we  reached  West 
Point.”  (Having  left  New  York  at  7 a.  m.)  “Uncle 
Thomas  met  us  at  the  dock.” 

The  old  north  steamboat  landing,  where  now  the 
coal  lift  rears  its  ugly  head.  Then  it  was  a wild  spot 
of  rocks  and  trees,  with  no  very  apparent  outlet:  a 
neat  little  building  perched  among  the  cedars,  a guard 
in  uniform,  and  perhaps  at  boat  time  an  officer  or  two 
looking  on.  A floating  dock  stretched  out  into  the 
river,  which  ran  its  mill-race  course  just  there,  as  now. 
So  that  with  a north  wind  and  a down  tide,  it  was  no 
unheard  of  thing  for  the  big  steamer  to  miss  her  land- 
ing and  try  again. 

“Prof.  Davies  called  that  afternoon,  and  Cadet  Wm. 
Warner  and  Mr.  Alden,  besides  Mr.  Hackley.  Sunday 
we  went  to  Church.  Service  was  performed  for  the 
first  time  in  the  new  chapel.  Monday  morning  we  went 
over  to  Constitution  Island.  We  passed  between  one 
and  two  hours  on  the  island.  Such  a scramble!  The 
eminence  over  which  we  scrambled  was  as  rough  as  can 
well  be  imagined,  and  rattlesnakes  were  in  my  head 
half  the  time  at  least.”  (They  were  never  anywhere 
else  on  the  Island,  since  prehistoric  days.)  “Towards 
the  last  of  it,  it  did  seem  as  if  I could  stand  it  no  longer; 
and  then  when  we  had  reached  this  side  again,  there 
was  that  steep  hill  from  the  dock  to  climb.” 

Not  the  present  winding  road,  but  a very  “sooner 
the  quicker”  way,  still  discernible  in  spots.  It  used  to 
be  said,  that  the  officer  who  laid  it  out  always  paused 
midway  up  the  hill,  “to  admire  the  view”! 

‘ ‘ I know  I got  home  wo  fully  hot  and  tired.”  (N.  B. 
Not  “ awfully. ”)  “ Aunty  made  us  some  lemonade,  and 


1 54 


Susan  Warner 


I got  cool  after  a while,  but  I felt  the  fatigue  still 
the  next  day.  We  found  splendid  laurels  in  flower, 
and  delicious  wintergreens  on  the  hill ; and  one  or  two 
other  things,  none  of  which  I have  as  yet  examined  or 
put  to  press — it  is  so  troublesome  to  press  them  in 
books.” 

“Monday  afternoon  Mr — called,  and  I got  a fit  of  the 
fidgets.  Uncle  Thomas  was  out,  and  there  were  just 
Father,  Aunty  and  I,  and  I don’t  know  but  the  children. 
One  would  think  there  could  be  no  great  difficulty  in 
sitting  and  keeping  quiet  and  being  easy;  but  instead 
of  that,  after  a few  minutes  I felt  a heat  coming  over 
me ; hands — face — all  was  in  a glow.  It  passed  away  of 
course  very  soon,  and  I did  not  know  that  it  had  beer- 
visible  to  others,  as  well  as  perceived  by  myself,  but  in 
the  evening  Aunty  told  me  that  it  had  amounted  to  a 
complete  suffusion  of  face  and  neck,  (I  think  she  said 
something  like  that)  and  gave  me  a piece  of  a lecture 
upon  it.  She  sees  through  and  through  me  I think 
sometimes.  It  was  my  own  fault,  I know,  and  I don’t 
think  I shall  do  so  again  very  soon. 

“Wednesday  Mrs.  Davies  sent  to  invite  us  to  tea,  and 
Uncle  Thomas  said  there  were  to  be  fireworks  in  the 
evening,  so  I expected  some  pleasure.  But  how  much 
I really  experienced  I am  too  hot  to  write  now. 

“After  writing  the  above  I arranged  my  hair, 
changed  my  shoes,  and  went  downstairs  with  my  fan 
and  my  book.  There  I found  Uncle  Thomas.  We 
began  to  talk,  and  went  on  from  Mr.  Weir’s  picture, 
to  old  pictures,  landscape  gardening,  and  taste  in 
laying  out  grounds.” 

From  this  peaceful  beginning  issued  a stormy  talk; 
for  upon  some  words  of  my  uncle  as  if  he  were  to  give 
the  finishing  touches  to  the  Island  grounds,  as  having 


i55 


Young  Fairyland 

more  taste  and  skill  than  my  father,  my  sister’s  jeal- 
ous love  took  fire,  and  flamed  up.  She  goes  on : 

“I  could  not  stand  any  more  but  ran  out  of  the  room 
and  upstairs,  and  gave  way  to  a burst  of  passion 
and  vexation,  and  indignation  and  sorrow.  Uncle 
Thomas  to  mark  out  our  boundaries  on  the  island,  the 
whole  of  which  Father  had  bought!  and  Uncle  Thomas 
to  lay  out  walks  &c.  for  us.  Oh,  I had  a jealousy  of 
something  like  this  before,  and  I cannot  bear  the  no- 
tion of  it.  The  most  beautiful  walk  on  our  place  I 
should  not  delight  in  if  done  by  him.  Father’s  place 
should  be  his  own  in  every  respect ; not  embellished  and 
made  beautiful  by  the  skill  and  taste  of  another. 
After  I had  been  upstairs  some  time,  and  had  got  com- 
paratively cool,  Uncle  Thomas  came  up,  and  partly 
explained  away  what  had  troubled  me,  but  even  then 
he  said  one  or  two  things  hard  to  bear,  and  with  that 
look  of  his,  that  it  is  so  impossible  to  stand  against. 
But  now  to  leave  all  this  fuss,  and  go  back  to  the 
evening  at  Mrs.  Davies  ’. 

“Uncle  Thomas  could  not  go,  but  Father  was  with 
us.  There  were,  at  tea,  Mrs.  Alden,  Prof.  Bartlett,  and 
Mr.  Amman,  and  after  tea,  Mr.  Alden  and  another  gen- 
tleman. I like  Mr.  Bartlett  very  much  and  so  I be- 
lieve does  everyone  that  knows  him.  I wish  he  may  be 
my  relation,  as  is  not  improbable,  for  he  comes  from 
Rhode  Island  or  thereawa’.  After  gunfire  we  went  out 
to  hear  the  address  to  the  cadets  delivered  by  Dr. 
Marshall,  one  of  the  Board  of  Visitors,  and  we  saw  the 
rest  of  the  parade.  The  first  class  were  to  be  relieved 
from  duty  after  that  evening  and  it  made  me  feel 
sorry  to  think  of  it.  We  went  back  to  the  house,  but 
sallied  forth  again  when  the  fireworks  began.  The 
question  was  where  we  could  see  them  best.  The  hotel 


Susan  Warner 


156 

was  the  place  undoubtedly,  but  when  we  reached  the 
turning,  rockets  were  going  up  within  a few  feet  of  us. 
It  was  really  dangerous.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  A.  and  Mr. 
Am.  took  Aunt  Fanny  and  Airs.  Davies  on  to  the  Hotel, 
but  I was  afraid  and  would  n’t  go  there  among  the 
rockets,  so  Father  took  me  home,  where  I found  Uncle 
Thomas,  and  then  went  off  wdth  little  E.  Davies  to 
find  her  mother.  Uncle  Thomas  and  I went  into  the 
garden,  but  in  the  open  part  of  it  I was  afraid  and  not 
without  reason,  to  stay;  and  in  the  more  sheltered 
part  I could  not  see  at  all.  I knew  the  party  at  the 
Hotel  could  see  perfectly,  and  I was  ready  to  cry 
with  vexation.  Father  came  back  however,  and  we 
went  round  to  Mrs.  Davies’  again,  where  presently  the 
rest  also  arrived.  We  had  a little  supper,  which  was  the 
best  thing  we  had  the  whole  evening  , except  the  parade 
& c.  I eat  only  ice  cream.” 

Wherever  there  was  the  least  chance,  imagination 
had  its  way,  and  nerves  were  astir.  So  the  next  day : 

“In  the  afternoon  there  was  a heavy  thunder  shower. 
The  forked  lightning  was  very  sharp,  though  most  of 
the  time  not  very  near.  I am  not  quite  easy  in  such  a 
storm.  It  is  very  awful.” 

Next  day  in  Chapel. 

“Uncle  Thomas  took  us  to  a seat  and  left  us.  When 
service  was  over  we  waited  half  a minute  for  Uncle 
Thomas  but  he  not  appearing  we  went  out  by  ourselves. 
We  had  waited  long  enough  for  most  of  the  people 
(except  the  cadets)  to  get  out  of  the  church ; so  there 
was  the  broad  nearly  empty  aisle,  with  cadets  on  each 
side,  for  us  to  march  through.  Nobody  was  before  us, 
and  I felt  unpleasantly  enough,  and  when  we  got  out 
there  was  Air. — . I keeping  hold  of  Ellen  started  off 
before  the  rest  of  our  party,  desiring  to  keep  clear  of  all 


Young  Fairyland  157 

things  that  might  trouble  me;  for  which  Aunty  after- 
wards called  me  to  account.” 

But  I think,  from  what  I have  heard  since,  that  some 
of  these  bits  of  behaviour  were  not  quite  all  the  girl’s 
“fault” ; and  that  a subtile  something  in  the  air  startled 
her  instincts,  not  yet  in  training  except  by  romances, 
nor  at  all  full  grown.  For  she  was  not  quite  seventeen. 
I have  also  been  told,  that  our  change  of  fortune  which 
came  soon  after,  touched  those  particular  spring 
blossoms  with  “a  most  unkindly  frost.”  But  they 
never  were  meant  to  live,  anyway. 

“We  do  all  feast  upon  strawberries,”  she  says  another 
day.  “Yesterday  morning  Father  picked  a parcel 
for  breakfast;  held  an  umbrella  with  one  hand,  and 
picked  with  the  other.  That ’s  being  fond  of  straw- 
berries, I think. 

‘ ‘ I took  it  into  my  head  last  week  to  read  some  one  of 
the  French  divines ; but  whether  Bossuet,  Bourdaloue  or 
Fenelon,  was  the  question.  More  than  one  consulta- 
tion I held  with  myself  before  I could  determine  which 
of  them  to  try,  and  finally  I pitched  upon  Bossuet. 
I have  read  part  of  one  sermon  wdiich  I hope  to  finish 
today;  but  how  easy  it  is  to  trifle  away  whole  days  in 
doing  nothing,  and  how  hard,  to  one  not  accustomed 
to  regular  and  useful  employment,  to  spend  one  hour 
in  application  to  something  worth  while.  For  some 
months  past  I have  been  rather  at  a standstill ; except 
in  the  one  article  of  music ; let  us  hope  that  months  to 
come  may  be  turned  to  better  account.  I am  almost 
seventeen.  How  much  may  be  justly  expected  of  me, 
and  how  am  I prepared  to  fulfil  these  expectations  ? I 
ought  to  exert  myself;  but  I think  far  too  little  on 
what  I ought  to  do;  it  is  always  what  I like  to  do. 
One  thing  I ought  never  to  do,  at  least  for  some  time, 


5^ 


Susan  Warner 


and  that  is,  to  read  novels.  I know  they  have  done 
me  mischief  enough  already.” 

A few  days  later  she  tells  of  a long  ramble  on  the  east 
bank  of  the  river;  to  Indian  Falls,  and  then  along  the 
table  land  of  the  old  “Plumbush  Farm.  ” It  is  notice- 
able, for  the  visions  which  were  so  very  far  from  pro- 
phetic of  wdiat  should  be. 

“We  left  the  road  and  went  to  the  edge  of  the  bank 
which  all  along  commands  a splendid  view,  down  the 
river  and  over  the  island,  the  meadows,  & West  Point. 
But  those  meadows, — what  can  be  thought  of  more 
beautiful  than  they  will  be,  when  once  rendered  per- 
fectly dry,  and  all  passage  of  water  through  them  pre- 
vented; and  they  are  to  be  included  in  our  domain.” 

I smile  at  the  words, — and  I could  put  my  head  down 
and  cry,  as  well,  for  the  other  visions  of  what  has  been. 
Ah  me!  We  were  to  see  those  meadows  in  many 
another  guise,  but  never  so. 

“I  have  been  amused  by  a little  book  ‘An  Excursion 
to  the  Monasteries  of  Alcobaga  and  Batallia,’  by  Mr. 
Beckford.  The  account  of  their  dinners  and  suppers 
is  enough  to  make  one’s  mouth  water.  I love  to  read 
about  good  eating.” 

As  afterwards  she  liked  to  write  about  it.  It  has  been 
amusing  enough,  to  get  letters  from  strangers  here  and 
there,  asking  for  receipts  for  the  biscuit  on  which 
“Captain  Parry”  set  his  paw;  for  “splitters,”  and  “the 
cake  Desire  made.” 

“At  dinner  on  Saturday  Uncle  Thomas  told  me  he 
thought  I was  rather  behindhand;  with  which  opinion 
I believe  Aunt  Fanny  expressed  her  agreement,  and  I 
rather  think  the  same  myself;  but  still  that’s  another 
thing  from  having  other  people  think  it.  I asked  in 
what  he  thought  me  deficient;  and  he  said  in  music, 


View  of  Constitution  Island  from  West  Point 


i59 


Young  Fairyland 

and  in  not  speaking  French.  If  that  were  all,  I should 
not  care,  for  as  to  the  first,  I ’ve  not  much  fear  but  that 
I shall  play  well,  and  for  the  second,  Father  don’t  care 
about  it,  and  I have  not  endeavoured  to  obtain  it.  But 
I know  myself  to  be  behindhand  in  other  things,  and 
I think  too  little  how  soon  I shall  be  seventeen.  One 
thing  I must  do  this  summer  if  I live;  and  that  is  to 
read  Tasso  through ; and  Anacharsis  too  I must  finish.” 
There ’s  a hint  here  of  one  of  her  favourite  mottoes : 
“Let  my  friends  take  me,  and  mend  me.” 

Another  visit  to  the  Island  comes  next. 

“We  went  all  hands,  somewhere  about  ten  o’clock. 
In  the  first  place  we  inspected  the  site  chosen  for  the 
house,  which  could  scarcely  be  better.” 

That  “palatial  ” house,  a true  Castle  in  the  air,  which 
was  never  built.  The  beautiful  site  stands  empty  still, 
and  only  my  eyes  see  now  what  once  we  thought  we 
saw. 

“Then  Uncle  Thomas  took  us  along  a beautiful  rude 
path  lying  wholly  on  our  ground,  where  Uncle  Thomas 
said,  we  may  one  day  drive  our  black  ponies.  ” (Never.) 
“Then  we  took  another  path  running  where  the  bound- 
ary road  is  to  run;  oh  how  rough,  stony,  and  tiresome 
it  was ; but  in  the  course  of  it  we  came  to  a little  valley, 
level  and  enclosed  with  woods,  most  beautiful.” 

Our  afterwards  beloved  “Happy  Valley”;  called  by 
the  country  people,  “Washington’s  Parade  Ground.” 
As  indeed  it  might  have  been.  The  old  road  through 
the  Island  threads  the  valley  on  its  rough  string  of 
rocks;  a little  oval,  cleared  of  trees  entirely,  once;  but 
now  among  the  centre  heaps  of  stones,  a cluster  of 
trees  has  sprung  up  and  flourished.  But  then  nor  ever 
after — despite  views  and  plans — did  my  sister  really 
enjoy  a rough  scramble : the  account  ends  thus. 


i6o 


Susan  Warner 


“We  crossed  the  island  through  this  rude  path,  and 
then  very  little  to  my  satisfaction,  we  had  to  go  back 
again  by  the  same  road.  I was  tired  enough ; my  feet 
battered  by  the  stones  and  travelling;  and  I got  over- 
heated, so  that  I did  not  lose  the  red  from  my  face  for 
the  day.  I would  not  take  such  another  ramble  for 
something;  it  is  quite  overdoing  the  matter.” 

Whereas  I might  have  been  a veritable  cony,  for  the 
way  I took  to  the  rocks,  dyeing  my  cheeks  not  red  but 
purple. 

“July  i-  Tuesday  evening  we  went  to  Mrs.  Alden’s. 
There  were  Mrs.  Bailey  and  Miss  Slaughter  her  sister; 
I don’t  know  if  I spell  her  name  right;  and  Mr. 
Swartwout,  Mr.  Alden’s  brother  in  law.  To  my  credit 
be  it  spoken,  I sat  alone,  that  is,  apart  from  Aunt  Fanny 
almost  all  the  evening.  Mr. — was  so  obliging  as  to 
come  and  tell  me  about  manufactures ; but  I was  much 
beholden  to  a piece  of  balm  which  gave  me  employmept 
for  eyes  and  hands,  and  by  dint  of  fingering  and  smell- 
ing to  it  I got  through  the  evening.  We  had  some  straw- 
berry ice;  abominable,  that  people  should  spoil  ice 
cream  with  mixtures.  Father  went  down  Wednesday. 
It  is  extremely  hot  today,  and  I have  not  done  any- 
thing except  beating  floating  island  and  examining 
flowers.  Uncle  Thomas  talked  to  me  about  my  eyes, 
and  afterwards  he  came  upstairs  and  we  had  a real 
confab  about  society,  Father,  and  Father’s  manners. 
But  it  is  too  hot  to  write,  absolutely  melting ; it  is  not 
weather  for  doing  much,  that  must  be  allowed.” 

“ July  2.  The  weather  is  charming  this  morning;  it 
will  be  hot  enough  by  and  by,  but  the  fog  or  mist 
which  hung  so  thick  a while  ago  has  not  fully  cleared  off 
yet,  and  there  is  a nice  breeze.  Last  night  we  went 
out  on  the  stoop  to  watch  for  the  boat  and  for  Father ; 


Young  Fairyland  161 

it  was  very  pleasant.  How  different  this  sweet  pure 
air  is  from  the  smell  of  the  stables  with  which  we  are 
greeted  on  throwing  up  our  back  windows  at  home,  in 
a warm  damp  evening.  The  boat  came  up,  but  so  did 
not  Father ; and  with  the  why  and  the  wherefore  we  were 
made  acquainted  this  evening  by  a letter.  I was  as- 
tonished on  coming  down,  by  the  news  that  Aunt  Mar- 
garet and  her  eldest  daughter  are  at  our  house.  That 
is  news  with  a vengeance.  Whether  to  be  glad  of 
it,  or  sorry  for  it,  I did  not  know,  but  now  I am 
rather  inclined  to  be  glad  of  it.  If  Frances  should  stay 
with  us — if  she  should  be  a nice  girl — if  she  should  be 
a companion  for  me,  I should  have  some  reason  to  be 
glad ; but  I don’t  know  how  it  will  be,  till  we  see  Father ; 
and  we  are  to  expect  him  tonight.  I know  I shall  be 
glad  to  see  him.  The  folks  want  me  to  give  Anna  music 
lessons,  and  I don’t  want  to  do  any  such  thing.  I had 
enough  of  that  last  winter;  it  is  the  most  tiresome 
business,  and  the  least  to  my  taste,  that  may  be.  How- 
ever I don’t  see  that  I can  help  myself,  but  oh,  how 
little  I do  like  it!” 

This  cousin  whom  we  had  never  before  seen  did 
stay  with  us,  and  was  one  of  the  family  for  several 
years. 

“ July  $th.  What  a careless  mortal  was  I,  not  to 
write  yesterday,  for  today  if  all  things  go  right  my  hopes 
and  expectations  stand  a chance  to  be  accomplished. 
Today  we  are  to  go  down  the  river  and  tonight  we 
hope  to  see  little  Fanny.  Uncle  Thomas  will  go  down 
with  us,  which  I am  very  glad  of.  He  and  I have  just 
had  another  battle  of  words.  Aunt  Fanny  has  said 
something  as  if  he  and  I could  not  live  under  the  same 
roof;  and  unless  I grow  wiser  and  milder,  for  he  is 
owre  old  to  expect  him  to  change,  I don’t  know  how 


162 


Susan  Warner 


we  well  could.  Here  are  two  fallings  out  since  we 
came  here;  quite  too  violent  to  be  endured  often.” 

So  quick  were  they  both,  so  intensely  argumentative, 
and  yet  the  dearest  of  friends.  “What  a splendid 
young  woman  that  is !” — he  said  one  day  to  my  father 
as  she  left  the  room. 

A short  stay  in  the  new  house  followed  this  West 
Point  visit : and  here  the  first  hard  life  experience  came. 
My  Aunt  Fanny  had  been  very  anxious  over  the  tall 
slender  girl;  shooting  up  so  swiftly  to  unusual  height, 
and  wedded  to  those  sedentary  habits  which  no  au- 
thority of  hers  could  control.  And  even  my  Father’s 
words  failed  of  their  end:  the  little  “Queen”  of  early 
days  still  had  her  way.  But  now  at  last  Aunt  Fanny 
sought  counsel.  Dr.  Valentine  Mott  was  called  in ; and 
at  once  put  my  sister  upon  a strict  regimen  of  diet  and 
ways ; with  plain  telling  of  what  (else)  the  result  might 
be.  It  came  hard. 

11  July  ii,  New  York.  It  is  my  birthday — not  a sea- 
son of  great  rejoicing  to  me  ever ; and  I am  anything  but 
joyful,  be  it  what  day  it  might.  I had  formed  delight- 
ful anticipations,  but  they  must  be  only  hopes  now. 
I had  such  bright  visions,  but  they  have  faded,  and  I 
think  the  dream  is  scarce  worth  awaking  from  it.  This 
morning  when  I awoke  the  first  thought  was  about  the 
pleasant  hopes  that  have  occupied  me  so  much  since  I 
came  home ; but  I soon  found  they  were  gone  and  that 
I must  make  up  my  mind  to  get  up  without  them.  My 
eyes  were  not  near  open;  I suppose  they  were  swelled 
with  my  long  and  hard  crying  last  night.  To  crown  all 
— Aunt  Margaret  has  seen,  and  they  and  I had  a real 
serious  talk  yesterday  on  the  subject;  a pleasant  con- 
sideration for  my  seventeenth  birthday,  but  it  was  not 
that  which  troubled  me  most.” 


Young  Fairyland  163 

As  I copy  the  old  entry  it  is  again  the  nth  of  July; 
and  I look  back  at  the  young  heartache  of  so  long  ago. 
No  more  crying,  for  her, — where  “they  shall  not  sorrow 
any  more  at  all.”  No  more  weakness,  where  “the  in- 
habitant shall  not  say  ‘I  am  sick.’  ” No  more  shad- 
owed hopes,  when  the  word  is:  “I  shall  be  satisfied.” 
And  if  the  tears  come,  it  is  ever  so  much  in  thanks  that 
God  gave  her  the  victory,  even  here.  That  there  were 
many  years  of  splendid  health  and  vigour ; and  when  at 
last  unceasing  life  work  brought  back  the  old  troubles, 
the  joy  of  the  Lord  was  her  strength;  and  the  face 
grew  sweeter  and  the  heart  stronger,  as  the  years  went 
by.  The  Lord  let  nothing  hurt  her.  It  is  long  before 
any  hint  of  weakness  comes  in  again;  the  young  life 
soon  threw  off  its  load — at  least  to  a great  degree. 
From  New  York  that  summer  she  went  straight  to 
Canaan ; and  there  July  3 1st  she  writes : 

“This  day  is  the  loveliest  imaginable;  it  is  as  clear 
and  as  mild,  and  as  quiet  as  can  be  desired,  and  the 
birds  are  singing  merrily. 

“ I have  been  happy  since  I came  here;  happier  than 
I expected  to  be,  for  I have  found  so  many  pleasant 
things  to  do.” 

11  Aug.  1st.  Here  is  another  delightful  day.  The 
•atmosphere  is  most  beautiful.  I shall  expect  Aunt  M. 
and  Fanny  till  they  come,  and  very  glad  I shall  be  to 
see  them.  Nevertheless  I have  pleasant  enough  things 
to  occupy  me;  Anacharsis  to  finish  and  Tasso  to  read, 
and  flowers  to  press,  &c. , &c.  My  kind  father  has  had 
made  for  me  a most  capital  press,  and  capital  it  ought 
to  be,  for  he  paid  $35.  for  it.  It  is  a very  complete 
affair.” 

“Aug.  3.  No  Tasso  on  Monday,  and  no  Tasso 
today.  I have  got  a new  notion,  not  quite  a useless 


164 


Susan  Warner 


one  this  time — it  is  to  write  French  exercises  for  Anna. 
It  suits  my  taste  excellently  well.  Anacharsis,  Tele- 
maque,  and  the  letters  of  Sevigne  furnish  sentences, 
idioms,  &c.  enough,  and  I delight  to  hunt  for  them,  and 
write  them  when  found.  I have  a lace  cape  to  sew 
work  upon,  for  Aunt  Fanny.  Father  and  I have  con- 
trived a beautiful  pattern,  and  now  let  us  see  how  long 
I shall  be  about  it.  We  have  a letter  from  Father,  and 
consequently  expect  Aunt  Margaret  and  Fanny  tonight 
or  tomorrow.  How  many  pleasant  things  seem  to  come 
together  since  I have  been  here,  and  I anticipated  very 
little:  perhaps  that’s  one  reason.  Nathless,  when  I am 
very  much  pleased  with  something,  the  thought  is  apt 
enough  to  come  across  me — ‘ It  is  not  abiding’ ; and 
perhaps  it  only  comes  too  seldom.” 

“Yesterday,  foolishly  enough,  I got  engaged  in 
‘Helen,’  which  Aunt  Margaret  had  borrowed  from 
somebody  here.  I read  a long  while  in  it,  and  what 
was  the  consequence?  I sat  long,  long,  after  we  came 
up  to  bed,  thinking;  and  though  I got  up  some  time 
before  them  this  morning,  the  same  thing  went  on,  and 
I just  got  down  to  breakfast,  from  my  thoughts.  Oh 
how  wretched  it  is  to  do  so ; I hate  it,  and  yet  scarcely 
struggle  against  it.” 

It  is  amusing  to  see  how  a girl  can  miss  her  measure.  A 
day  or  two  later  some  neighbours  came  to  tea.  She  says : 

“I  talked  none  almost,  though  I sat  by  H.  some  time. 
I am  a poor  hand  at  conversation  in  company,  that ’s 
certain.  What  will  become  of  me  if  ever  I go  into  com- 
pany, I don’t  know.  Thank  fortune!  that  will  not  be 
this  winter  at  least,  and  probably  never  in  a great  de- 
gree. I am  sure  I am  not  made  for  that ; but  I think 
Anna  is,  rather.  ” (Yet  she  came  to  be  called,  by  one  and 
another:  “The  best  talker  I ever  heard.”) 


Young  Fairyland  165 

“I  read  5 pages  of  Tasso  last  week;  I have  not  fin- 
ished one  canto  yet,  I am  afraid  I shall  be  very  far  from 
finishing  the  whole  work  before  I go  home.  And  for 
Anacharsis — I have  not  read  one  chapter  in  it  since  I 
have  been  here.  So  I go  on.  Catch  me  who  can, 
reading  a novel  again  in  a hurry.  It  does  hinder  me  so. 
I have  scarce  got  rid  of  Helen  yet.  I think  I shall  keep 
clear  of  novels  for  one  while  at  least ; I get  punished  for 
it  when  I meddle  with  them,  and  I am  sure  they  are 
about  as  bad  for  me  as  anything  I need  wish  to  have.” 
“I  like  very  well  to  stay  at  home  by  myself,  it  is  so 
nice  and  quiet.  Just  now  came  S’s  wife,  who  is  a lady 
I very  seldom  wish  to  see,  and  this  afternoon  when  I was 
thinking  to  write  here  so  nicely,  and  now  no  writing  or 
reading  until  they  are  gone — and  I have  sewed  as  much 
as  I want  to  for  today — Oh  misery!” 

The  old  liking  for  the  back  country  life  seemed  to  be 
passing  away:  lacked  zest  to  her  now.  On  Sept.  14. 
she  writes : 

“How  time  flies! — but  much  more  will  not  fly  over 
us  here,  I ’ve  a notion.  If  any  one  of  us  will  be  sorry 
to  leave  Canaan,  that  one  am  not  I.” 

“I  am  very  busy  still  with  Aunty’s  lace  cape,  and 
Tasso  lies  by.  I lie  down  on  my  back  on  a piece  of 
straw  bed  on  the  floor,  and  when  I am  tired  of  sewing  it 
is  very  pleasant.  I read  sometimes  in  that  position, 
and  like  it  exceedingly.  Dr.  Mott  is  I suppose  to  be 
informed  as  soon  as  we  get  home ; a pleasant  reflection. 
Nathless,  I think  I shall  be  glad  to  get  back  to  that  same 
home,  and  to  my  piano,  which  I feel  as  if  I should  much 
like  to  see  again,  and  to  put  my  fingers  on  the  keys  once 
more.” 

A visit  to  the  Lebanon  “Shakers”  was  in  prospect; 
and  she  says : 


t 66 


Susan  Warner 


“How  much  better  worth  it  is  to  stay  quietly  at 
home  and  read  Cowper,  than  to  see  all  the  Shakers  in 
the  world. 

“Father  arrived,  to  our  joy,  as  we  were  at  break- 
fast, and  we  shall  now  if  nothing  happens  probably  go 
from  hence  on  Tuesday  next ; in  good  time,  say  I. 
I do  not  love  Canaan  very  much  most  certainly,  and 
should  n’t  care  much  if  I thought  we  should  not  spend 
another  summer  here.  Yet  I have  been  very  happy 
this  summer  but  so  it  is.” 

11  Oct.  i.  I have  been  reading  in  Quentin  Durward 
these  few  evenings.  By  the  by  I have  finished  Aunty’s 
cape — gave  it  to  her  last  Wednesday  or  thereabouts. 
Very  pretty  it  is  too.  Dr.  Mott  is  gone  to  Europe,  but 
I suppose  I shall  have  Dr.  Bushe  instead,  that  is  worse. 
In  spite  of  all,  however,  I am  glad  to  go  home.” 

“Dec.  29.  Here  is  a fine  break  in  my  journal,  most 
assuredly.  What  a million  of  things  I could  say  if  I 
would.  I scarce  know  what  to  begin  with,  but  as  it  is 
impossible  to  go  back  to  October,  I think  I may  as  well 
begin  by  last  night.  Mr.  Hackley  and  Mr.  Locke  dined 
here,  and  did  n’t  go  till  after  eight.  A very  pleasant 
dinner  we  had.  I played  two  pieces  without  feeling 
very  badly.  Dr.  Bushe  has  been  to  see  me,  and  has 
laid  down  a course  of  exercise  for  me.  I am  every 
day  to  use  ” (various  implements  named)  “half  an  hour 
each,  with  intervals  of  a quarter  of  an  hour,  and  sleep 
only  seven  hours  in  the  twenty-four,  and  drink  porter. 
Only  the  swing  is  yet  ready  for  me,  which  accordingly 
I use  half  an  hour  a day.  Our  Christmas  passed  like 
any  other  day,  and  I have  nothing  to  record  concerning 
it.  I teach  the  children,  translate  French  (for  their 
use)  read  Cowper,  and  practise.  Also  I have  begun 
Dugald  Stewart  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Mind.  How 


Young  Fairyland  167 

I like  it,  is  very  sufficiently  shewn  by  the  progress  I 
make  in  it,  which  I must  confess  is  very  slow.” 

Three  months  pass  by  with  no  word  of  record;  and 
the  page  that  comes  next  gives  the  last  account  of  all 
that  part  of  her  life:  the  last  spring,  I think,  when 
abundant  means  and  a city  home  played  their  part  in 
her  education. 

“ March  26.  Sunday. — It  is  afternoon — all  the  folks 
gone  to  church,  but  me;  and  I went  not  last  Sunday, 
nor  the  Sunday  before  either,  and  Anna  and  Aunt 
Fanny  have  not  been  for  the  last  four;  and  from  a 
cause  unusual  with  us, — sickness,  scarlet  fever,  which 
attacked  first  Anna  and  then  me,  and  I am  nearly 
quite  over  it,  but  since  I have  got  well  I have  forgotten 
to  be  thankful,  I am  afraid;  I thought  when  I was  sick 
it  would  be  a lesson,  a warning  to  me,  and  still  I hope 
it  has  been,  though  indeed  I think  less  of  it  now  when 
I am  well  and  happy,  than  when  I was  unwell  and  not 
happy. 

“What  account  can  I give  of  the  winter  which  is 
gone,  not  to  my  joy?  For  myself,  I have  done  nothing, 
literally,  I am  afraid.  Tasso  and  Dante  have  stood 
on  the  shelf  undisturbed.  I have  let  Italian  alone. 
French,  I have  kept  up,  but  it  has  been  in  instructing 
the  children.  Dugald  Stewart  I gave  up  as  soon  as  I 
began  my  labours ; and  practising  for  some  time  past 
has  amounted  to  very  little.  I am  only  in  the  third 
volume  of  Cowper.  And  even  that  which  has  been 
the  nominal  reason  for  putting  off  everything  else,  the 
great  business  of  the  winter,  the  one  thing  that  Father 
wished  me  to  do,  even  that,  I am  afraid,  by  the  manner 
in  which  I have  done  it,  is  of  little  avail,  and  if  I am  no 
worse,  I think  I am  no  better  than  when  Dr.  Bushe  saw 
me ; so  that  in  truth  the  work  is  yet  to  be  done,  and  I 


i68 


Susan  Warner 


look  forward  still  to  three  months  of  hard  work — three 
months  or  more,  and  of  hot  weather,  not  cold,  as  were 
the  three  months  I have  had,  in  which  Dr.  Bushe  said  I 
might  cure  myself,  if  I gave  myself  to  the  work.  My  own 
wilfulness  and  indolence  have  been  the  trouble,  in  this 
and  in  everything  since  I was  big  enough  to  have  a wdll ; 
and  I have  disappointed  my  friends.  I know  I am  not 
what  they  once  thought  I would  be,  and  I know  I am 
not  what  I might  have  been.  I scarcely  knew  I had 
spent  this  wdnter  so  utterly  in  vain  till  I began  to  write 
about  it.  I am  loth  enough  to  enter  upon  my  labours 
again,  which  have  been  interrupted  by  sickness;  but 
I shall  be  well  enough  in  a day  or  two,  if  I go  on  as  I 
have  done.” 


CHAPTER  X 


RICHES  TAKE  WINGS 

Following  these  thoughts  and  strictures  comes  a 
long,  long  silence;  and  for  well  nigh  a year  and  a half 
she  either  wrote  no  journal,  or  afterwards  destroyed  it. 
Even  of  the  summer  and  fall  which  she  and  my  cousin 
spent  at  West  Point,  she  says  no  word.  I have  heard 
that  she  was  in  the  open  air  a great  deal,  with  long 
rows  upon  the  river  and  walks  on  land ; growing  rosy  and 
strong ; and  doubtless  keeping  all  rust  from  her  wits  with 
countless  talks  and  arguments  with  my  uncle.  But  a 
few  stray  entries  near  the  end  of  the  next  winter  shewed 
her  much  the  same  girl  as  before. 

“ Feb.  ijth.  I don’t  know  what  I did  this  morning 
early,  or  whether  I did  anything.  Dusted  father’s 
room  and  the  basement,  and  played  a little.  Aunty 
and  I dressed  and  went  out  pretty  early  to  pay  calls. 
Despatched  six  of  them.  Came  home  and  chose  from 
the  Penny  Magazine  a woodcut  to  copy,  an  old 
Norman  peasant.  After  dinner  we  roasted  apples.  In 
the  evening  read  Hume  (aloud)  and  heard  the  children 
in  Dictionary  and  Chemistry.  Omitted  Anna’s  music 
lesson.  Read  Robinson  Crusoe.” 

‘ ‘ Feb.  14th.  Played  and  spent  some  time  in  prepar- 
ing transfer  work  for  a lace  cape.  After  dinner  we 
walked.  Read  Hume  in  the  evening.  Omitted  to  hear 
the  children’s  lessons.  Sung  awhile.  Very  poor  work.” 

L69 


170 


Susan  Warner 


‘ ‘ Feb.  ijth.  Spent  a great  part  of  the  day  in  finishing 
arranging  Aunty’s  cape.  Heard  the  children  chemis- 
try, arithmetic,  ancient  geography.  After  dinner  gave 
Fanny  her  music  lesson,  and  we  went  upstairs  and 
played  tag.  Read  Hume  in  the  evening.  Too  busy  all 
day  to  have  much  time  to  read  anything  to  myself. 
Could  n’t  walk  because  it  snowed.” 

“ Feb  1 6th.  I went  into  the  kitchen  and  made  cake 
with  Ann’s  assistance  and  instructions.  Sewed  on 
Aunty’s  cape  and  heard  the  children  Walker  and  Chem- 
istry, and  gave  them  out  sums.  After  dinner  read  The 
Mirror  and  played  tag.  My  time  has  been  pretty 
fully  occupied  yet  I have  omitted  Anna’s  music  lesson, 
and  Hume,  and  my  chapter.” 

11  Feb.  1 8th.  A beautiful  day.  Went  to  church 
twice.  Prof.  Davies  called  between  churches.  Read 
two  chapters  in  Job,  and  a letter  or  two  of  Cowper’s. 
Sleepy  in  the  evening  till  after  prayers,  when  we  had 
a nice  talk. 

“Feb.  20th.  Worked  away  at  my  cape  and  Aunty’s. 
Drew  near  an  hour;  in  which  time  I finished  my  old 
man’s  face  and  hair.  Heard  the  children  in  chemistry 
and  dictionary  and  put  out  sums  to  them.  Mary 
Whiting  came  to  dinner,  after  which  Aunty,  F.,  and  I 
walked  downtown  with  her.  Read  Hume  in  the  even- 
ing. Omitted  Anna’s  music  lesson  and  my  chapter.” 
“Feb  21st.  Heard  no  lessons  to-day  because  I was  too 
busy,  Prof.  Davies  and  his  brother  and  Mr.  Hackley 
being  to  dine  here.  Grated  cocoanut,  beat  eggs 
and  floating  island,  etc.  After  they  were  gone  in  the 
evening,  we  all  vrent  to  see  Catlin’s  Indian  Gallery,  with 
which  we  were  much  pleased.  Perfectly  charmed  wdth 
Osceola’s  portrait. 

“Feb.  24th.  Holiday  all  round.  Drew  awhile. 


Riches  Take  Wings  171 

Just  rubbed  out  my  old  man’s  collar,  and  did  it  over 
again.” 

“ Feb . 25th.  Went  to  church  twice.  Read  two 
chapters  in  Job,  and  two  or  three  of  Cowper’s  letters, 
and  one  article  in  the  Penny  Magazine.” 

“ March  18th.  As  it  snowed  we  could  not  go  to 
church.  Wrote  lists,  read  in  the  Bible  aloud  with  the 
children  and  to  myself.  Played  ball  awhile  delight- 
fully for  exercise.  Read  a little  in  some  little  books  of 
Anna’s.  Spent  the  day  pleasantly.” 

It  was  the  last  journal  written  in  the  last  city  house 
she  was  ever  to  call  home.  How  far  my  sister  had  felt 
the  change  that  was  coming,  I cannot  tell.  Of  course 
there  were  no  masters  for  her  any  longer,  she  was 
teacher,  instead  of  taught:  and  there  must  have  been 
many  another  sign,  to  eyes  old  enough  to  read  them; 
but  such  knowledge  comes  slowly,  to  the  younger  hearts, 
and  at  first  is  half  refused. 

From  that  stormy  Sunday  in  town,  spent  “pleas- 
antly” among  our  crimson  cushions  and  tall  mirrors; 
with  greenhouse,  carriage,  and  a corps  of  servants 
close  at  hand;  my  sister  passes  without  note  or  com- 
ment, to  the  greatly  changed  life  in  the  Highlands. 
The  break-up,  the  moving,  the  new  surroundings,  have 
no  word.  She  was  out  of  the  moving  itself,  indeed; 
away  up  at  Hudson  on  a visit:  always  sent  off,  at  any 
such  time  of  confusion:  and  that  ease,  leisure,  wealth, 
society — even  friends — were  slipping  away  from  us,  she 
could  not  really  guess.  I do  not  know  how  she  felt 
about  the  change  of  houses. 

It  was  the  fourth  of  June  before  she  joined  us  at  the 
Island ; and  ten  miles  away  she  saw  the  white  flag  wav- 
ing her  a welcome  from  one  of  the  old  cedars  on  Fort 
Constitution.  But  the  journal  does  not  begin  for 


Susan  Warner 


1 72 

many  weeks  after  that:  and  the  first  entry  gives  the 
first  name  chosen  for  our  abode. 

“ Woodcrags , Aug.  ijth.  Yesterday  Fanny  and  I 
rowed  Uncle  Thomas  and  father  to  Cold  Spring.  They 
went  ashore  and  stayed  some  time,  and  we  sat  in  the 
boat  and  read  the  newspapers  and  talked.  They 
were  firing  at  the  target  when  we  came  home,  but  we 
passed  by  between  whiles.  Heard  the  girls  in  arith- 
metic and  chemistry,  but  as  it  was  late  and  they  wanted 
to  go  after  huckleberries,  in  nothing  more.  Omitted 
Marshall.  The  girls  are  to  write  something  every  week 
and  deliver  it  for  inspection  on  Saturday.  I had  the 
first  productions  Monday.  It  is  excessively  amusing. 
There  was  a prose  piece  and  a verse  piece  from  each. 
They  are  given  in  without  names,  and  written  some 
by  one,  some  by  the  other,  so  that  I cannot  tell  which 
is  which.  They  made  us  much  fun.  The  other  eve-, 
ning  Fan  and  I rowed  Uncle  Thomas  over.  Father  was 
along  of  course.  Mr.  de  Rham’s  beautiful  boat  was 
there,  and  set  off  from  the  dock  a little  before  us, 
to  come  back.  Fan  and  I pulled  very  hard  after  her, 
and  gained  upon  her,  father  said,  but  she  was  too  far 
ahead  for  us  to  overtake  her.  However,  we  had  a 
delightful  row.” 

This  must  have  been  the  long,  long  black  boat 
named  The  Black  Snake. 

“Aug.  iyth.  Heard  the  girls  in  arithmetic.  Gave 
Anna  her  lesson.  Read  Marshall.  Father  is  reading 
the  Life  of  Scott  (Lockhart’s)  in  the  evenings  and  it 
is  one  of  the  most  charming  books  that  ever  were 
written.  Read  in  Belinda.  Too  windy  to  row.  We 
don’t  row  much  this  year,  compared  with  the  last.” 

“Aug.  24th.  Heard  the  girls  in  arithmetic  and 
punctuation.  Gave  Anna  her  lesson.  Read  Marshall. 


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Riches  Take  Wings 

Father  went  down  this  evening  in  the  Highlander. 
The  children  always  stand  on  the  rocks  and  wave  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  he  waves  to  them,  till  the  boat  turns  and 
he  can  no  longer  be  seen.  There  is  something  almost 
sad  about  it.  Uncle  Thomas  said  he  saw  the  tears  in 
father’s  eyes  as  he  waved,  once  when  Uncle  T.  was 
with  him.  And  I am  sure  these  tears  were  in  some 
lines  that  he  wrote  about  that  time,  telling  the  story. 

As  I sailed  from  the  rocks  of  my  Island  abode, 

And  gave  back  my  soul  to  the  view: 

On  a crag  that  hung  high  o’er  my  watery  road, 

A form  like  an  angel  a white  signal  shewed, 

And  waved  me  a silent  adieu. 

The  sun  of  the  Highlands  had  gone  to  his  rest, 

The  gloom  of  his  absence  grew  deep ; 

Chill  evening  had  set  up  her  star  in  the  west, 

The  woods  and  the  valleys  in  mourning  were  dressed ; 

I wept — 0 I could  not  but  weep ! 

That  form  was  my  child,  ’t  is  a father’s  right 
To  prize  the  best  boon  God  has  given, 

She  had  come  there  to  watch  o’er  my  desolate  flight, 
And  to  soothe  it  in  language  addressed  to  my  sight 
With  blessings  as  holy  as  heaven. 

And  still  she  kept  waving  that  signal  fair, 

Her  bosom’s  sweet  message  to  tell: 

Till  a headland  invading  the  dusky  air 
Came  rudely  between — and  I lost  her  there ; 

My  daughter,  my  daughter,  farewell!” 

“Sept.  ist.  I am  so  very  busy  as  to  have  either 
little  time  or  too  little  inclination  to  write  journal. 
My  days  pass  away  very  happily — I think  nearly  as 
much  so  as  ever  they  did  in  my  life.  So  very  quietly, 


174 


Susan  Warner 


so  very  regularly,  and  I hope  not  without  profit,  do  our 
employments  succeed  each  other.  Yesterday  morning 
I went  out  with  the  girls  to  saw,  and  found  it  exceed- 
ingly pleasant.  After  we  had  lopped  a good  many 
branches  we  dragged  them  out  of  the  wood  and  over 
the  rocks.  This  morning  I have  just  been  trying  my 
hand  at  another  new  business, — working  over  butter. 
I like  it  much. 

“ I do  not  look  forward  to  the  approach  of  winter  and 
the  season  of  our  stay  in  the  city,  with  any  pleasure. 
That  is  no  longer  home.  I have  taken  up  drawing 
again  today,  for  a wonder.  The  old  Norwegian  peasant 
again.  Reconsidered  his  collar,  and  drew  the  front 
of  his  shirt  and  one  hand.  If  I go  out  and  saw  every 
day  it  will  not  hurt  my  conscience  to  sit  and  draw. 
Heard  the  girls  in  arithmetic,  and  failed  to  hear  them 
in  Marshall.” 

She  was  so  unweariedly  correct  in  all.  she  did,  that 
she  was  always  slow;  gleaned  the  last  berry  from  the 
bush  where  she  was  picking,  and  in  drawing  measured 
distances  with  her  eye  many  times,  before  she  would 
put  pencil  to  paper. 

* ‘ Feb.  3rd.  Yesterday  was  so  cold  that  I did  not  know 
what  to  do.  In  the  course  of  the  morning  father  went 
with  the  girls  and  me  to  the  meadows,  where  they  have 
been  burning  the  brush  on  some  land,  and  father  was 
somewhat  afraid  of  the  fire  spreading  too  far,  or 
continuing  too  long.  We  walked  some  distance  over 
the  black,  hot  and  smoking  ground,  and  got  our  clean 
clothes  in  a fine  condition.  In  the  evening  after  tea  we 
went  to  the  top  of  the  hill  just  west  of  Fort  Con.  where 
there  is  a beautiful  level  platform,  and  from  thence 
down  a very  tolerable  path  to  the  little  valley.  I have 
never  been  on  the  top  of  that  hill  before.  Father  has 


i75 


Riches  Take  Wings 

named  it  ‘Table  Rock.’  The  eminence  to  the  east  of 
Cedar  Valley  he  names  ‘South  Crag’ — that  behind  the 
future  house  site  to  the  east  of  Fort  Con.,  ‘Home 
Crag’ — the  rocky  fortified  point  south  of  the  open 
field,  ‘Old  Point  Comfort.’  I think  that  will  do  pretty 
well.  This  morning  we  went  out  and  had  a fine  sawing 
time.  Read  Marshall.  Gave  Fanny  her  lesson  and  had 
a good  long  practice  myself.  In  the  afternoon  we  went 
out  again  and  I chopped  wood  for  a good  while,  for  the 
kitchen  fire.  I like  it  very  much  indeed.  Omitted  all 
recitations.  Sung  Scotch  songs  awhile  after  I came  in. 
Father  finished  reading  the  Life  of  Scott,  this  evening. 
It  has  given  us  a great  deal  of  enjoyment.” 

My  sister  had  an  absolutely  correct  ear ; and  her  music 
was  as  thorough  in  its  time  and  tune  as  everything 
else  that  she  did.  But  her  voice  was  not  strong;  and 
she  never  sang  much  except  at  home.  She  played  ad- 
mirably; and  in  later  days,  in  society,  people — even 
young  people— would  cease  their  talk,  to  gather  in  a 
silent  cluster  about  the  piano,  at  her  first  notes.  Yet  it 
was  not  the  light  music  of  the  day ; she  never  cared  for 
that ; but  the  older  and  richer  compositions  gave  forth 
their  deep  sweetness  at  her  touch.  Absorbed  in  her 
theme ; with  no  social  side-play  right  and  left ; with  no 
seeming  consciousness  of  the  people  around  her,  so  she 
played.  Every  note  clear,  liquid,  distinct  with  her 
absolute  truth ; no  slur,  no  haste,  no  musical  chicanery. 
Short  of  great  professionals,  I have  never  heard  a touch 
like  hers.  And  how  people  listened ! 

She  was  extremely  fond  of  the  piano,  and  of  old 
music.  The  music  is  here  still,  in  sheets  and  books. 
Beethoven’s  Symphonies,  stamped  with  our  mother’s 
name ; and  Mozart  and  Thalberg  and  Liszt,  and  a host 
more.  Piles  of  Italian  songs,  bound  and  unbound  vol- 


176 


Susan  Warner 


times  of  quaint  old  ditties  and  pieces,  dating  back  with 
the  Symphonies.  Then  Moore’s  Melodies,  and  songs  of 
that  day.  “The  Coronach,”  and  “Blanche  of  Devon’s 
Song,”  and  even  “Giles  Scroggin’s  Ghost” — which  we 
used  to  sing  for  a frolic;  with  gay  “Young  Lochinvar,” 
and  the  two  big  volumes  of  Thompson’s  Burns.  How 
inextricably  the  sundown,  the  light  on  river  and  hills, 
and  her  voice  are  joined,  for  me,  with  every  note  of 

Hark,  the  mavis’  evening  sang; — 

I used  to  hear  her  singing  it  when  I was  flying  about 
outdoors;  perhaps  on  this  very  evening  of  which  she 
writes.  Later  on,  we  sang  a great  deal  together. 
Dashing  off  into  “Killikrankie,”  or  “The  White  Cock- 
ade,” with  “Barbara  Allen”  and  “Robin  Grey”  or 
“Sir  Patrick  Spence”  for  a foil.  Then  Sunday  even- 
ings we  sang  hymns,  till  I wellnigh  got  the  hymn  book 
by  heart. 

Meantime,  as  we  sang — but  half  understanding — the 
old  words  of  love  and  sorrow,  of  change  and  loss,  and  the 
hymns  of  trust ; our  own  life  was  changing  much  faster 
than  we  knew.  I am  grouping  the  years  a little,  not 
trying  to  give  precise  dates  and  limits ; which  indeed  I 
could  not;  but  our  affairs  were  on  a steady  progress 
down  hill.  From  waiter  and  coachman  and  cook  to  the 
skill  of  our  own  hands  (chiefly)  was  a broad  step ; oars 
and  saw  and  hatchet  succeeded  our  frisky  black  ponies ; 
while  from  dainty  silks  and  laces,  we  came  down  to  cali- 
coes, fashioned  by  our  own  fingers ; and  from  new  bon- 
nets with  every  turn  of  the  season,  to  what  headgear  we 
could  get.  All  this  mattered  very  little  to  me;  but  for 
my  sister  in  the  bloom  of  her  young  womanhood, 
it  must  have  been  hard.  It  was  a great  help  to  us  both 
that  we  had  never  heard  dress  talked.  Always  providing 


177 


Riches  Take  Wings 

the  daintiest  wear  for  herself  and  us,  Aunt  Fanny  never 
spoke  of  it,  or  seemed  to  make  it  of  the  least  account. 
The  dressmaker  might  go  into  raptures  over  my  little 
rosebud  muslin,  but  the  raptures  ended  there ; there  was 
never  a word  about  the  dress  at  home.  Looks  and 
clothes  were  never  discussed ; and  I grew  up  in  happy 
ignorance  of  what  even  “regular”  features  meant. 

But  the  banishment  of  silk  dresses  entailed  a much 
heavier  loss;  that  of  intercourse  with  other  people. 
If  you  have  “nothing  to  wear,”  few  want  you;  while 
some  think  it  kind  not  to  invite  you,  because  of  course 
(in  such  case)  you  cannot  want  to  come ! and  for  a good 
while  we  had  little  to  do  with  visits  or  visitors.  But  I 
think  it  tried  my  sister  more  than  anyone  guessed. 

She  cared  not  very  much  for  the  natural  world  in 
those  days ; but  had  grown  eagerly  fond  of  its  opposite, 
Society.  The  shyness  with  which  she  began  life  had 
passed  into  a great  liking  for  strangers,  a great  taste  for 
change  and  stir.  She  wanted  to  go  about,  to  talk, 
to  entertain.  Yet  she  never  complained;  never  mur- 
mured for  what  she  had  not ; but  threw  herself  into  the 
work  at  hand  with  all  her  thoroughness.  Sewed  with 
the  daintiest  stitches;  every  hem  a model  and  every 
comer  on  line.  Dusted,  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of 
the  present  race  of  housemaids ; made  perfect  bread  and 
first  class  butter.  Drilled  me  in  French  and  one  of  her 
cousins  in  music;  read  Sevigne  and  Moliere,  talked 
long  talks  with  my  father,  sang,  played,  and  wrote  a 
journal. 

Botanising  went  on  too  very  briskly,  but  I generally 
picked  the  flowers;  roaming  everywhere  and  fearing 
nothing.  If  when  I parted  some  tuft  of  green  things  the 
tail  of  a snake  slipped  away  from  beneath  my  fingers,  I 
gathered  my  specimen  all  the  same.  There  were  no 


i ?8 


Susan  Warner 


poisonous  snakes  on  the  Island,  and  a new  flower  was 
not  to  be  missed.  Then  my  sister  got  out  her  books, 
examined  the  fair  things  and  put  them  to  press  while  I 
went  for  more.  Sometimes  it  was  the  dainty  oro- 
banche,  or  a small  green  orchid  of  about  the  same 
height,  now,  I fear  more  than  ‘ ‘ rare.  ’ ’ Sometimes  a new 
Lysimachia,  a third  sort  of  convallaria,  or  the  lovely 
Golden  Club — now  also  quite  gone  from  our  shore. 
Once,  a pink  Cardinal  flower;  clear,  delicate  pink;  the 
only  specimen  I had  ever  seen. 

I have  the  pressed  flowers  still,  in  their  neat  ribband 
bound  cases.  Rarely  opened ; not  often  touched ; yet 
with  the  story  of  many  of  the  plants  so  vividly  fresh 
that  I could  write  it  out  to-day.  Who  will  bum  them  ? 

I cannot.  I never  come  suddenly  upon  some  of  the  liv- 
ing plants,  without  a thrill.  Purple  Gerardias  roll 
back  the  years,  and  blue-eyed  grass  gives  pitying 
glances.  But  I am  glad  of  every  one  I brought  to  her. 

It  was  an  untold  blessing  to  us,  in  those  years  of 
many  privations,  that  my  father  was  wThat  he  was.  The 
clearest  mind,  the  most  acute  definer ; the  most  ardent 
lover  of  books  and  study.  I might  add  the  most 
devoted  adherent  of  the  old-time  beautiful  Saxon 
English.  In  his  busiest  days  and  most  troubled  years, 
he  always  found  time  to  talk  with  his  children.  So  he 
gave  me  subjects  to  study  and  then  report  upon  at 
breakfast ; he  wrote  questions  for  compositions ; he  read 
to  us  in  the  evening,  poetry,  history,  fiction.  Our  meal- 
times were  always  delightful  seasons  of  talk,  discussion, 
and  intercourse;  as  unlike  what  one  commonly  finds 
now,  as  were  the  muffins.  I cannot  imagine  my  father 
with  a newspaper  held  up  between  him  and  the  faces  he  * 
loved  so  well.  But  the  good  of  it  all  to  us,  the  joy  of 
it,  can  never  be  told. 


1 79 


Riches  Take  Wings 

Then  the  Sundays. 

There  is  so  much  said  in  these  days  about  the  gloom 
of  the  “Pilgrim”  Sabbath  (the  “cessation”  once  so 
highly  prized,)  that  I look  back  with  a smile  and  a 
sigh  at  how  little  some  people  know.  Gloom?  Why 
it  no  more  set  foot  in  our  house  than  did  blue  mould. 
Yet  Sunday  was  always  a strictly  “set  apart”  day;  the 
business  of  the  week  completely  laid  aside,  the  topics 
of  the  week  pushed  out  of  mind. 

To  the  end  of  his  life  my  father  came  down  stairs 
Sunday  morning,  a sort  of  embodiment  of  the  Sabbath 
purity  and  peace.  When  you  looked  up  as  he  opened 
the  door,  it  was  to  see  one  of  the  shining  ones  come  in. 
His  presence  was  a light,  not  an  extinguisher.  I never 
remember  hearing  “hush!” — or  feeling  it — in  all  the 
long  bright  day ; I never  remember  any  rules  or  regula- 
tions. It  was  the  Sabbath  atmosphere  that  taught 
us,  where  Sunday  was  always  the  Lord’s  day,  and  where 
Sunday-breaking  never  entered.  “The  rest  of  the 
Sabbath”:  no  visiting,  no  entertaining;  the  meals  as 
simple  as  they  could  be  made ; the  week-day  books  and 
business  alike  laid  by.  The  one  was  not  on  our  tongues, 
nor  the  others  on  the  table. 

But  talk,  and  reading  of  fresher  things,  with  the  fine 
Bible  study  which  my  father  thought  out  for  us,  kept  us 
busy.  No  boating  or  chopping  or  horseback  riding 
on  that  day.  Sometimes  a sunset  walk  in  the  woods, 
or  down  the  garden-path  among  the  roses ; then  in  the 
evening  our  hymns. 

iiSept.  4th.  I went  out  to  chop  this  morning  and 
stayed  a good  while;  the  girls  meanwhile  dragging 
branches  and  wheeling  sticks  and  rubbish.  Came  in 
and  read  Marshall.  Omitted  Anna’s  lesson.  Went  out 
again  in  the  afternoon  and  spent  some  time  chopping 


i8o 


Susan  Warner 


wood  and  picking  up  little  sticks  and  wheeling  them 
away.  Pretty  well  tired  by  tea  time.  Father  began 
the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.” 

“ Sept.  6th.  Went  out  and  chopped  wood  a long 
time,  having  first  worked  over  the  butter.  Came  in 
and  made  a flour  pudding  and  then  made  the  sauce  to 
it.  Heard  the  girls  in  arithmetic.  Gave  Fanny  her 
lesson.  Omitted  Marshall.”  Lessons  given  or  not, 
and  father  reading  Prince  Puckler-Muskau  or  St. 
Valentine’s  Day;  with  exercises  on  the  water  or  in  the 
woods.  This  last  perplexed  our  neighbours. 

One  late  afternoon  as  we  wTere  all  busy  in  the  dusky 
shadow  of  some  cedars  near  the  river,  a row  boat  came 
by  with  eager  talkers,  and  my  father  thought  he  knew 
the  voices. 

“They  go  out  to  chop  and  saw  instead  of  mending 
stockings”  said  one  man.  “They’d  better  a darned 
sight  stay  at  home  and  wash  the  dishes,  and  let  the 
servants  do  it.” 

You  see  athletics  were  not  the  fashion  then, — perhaps 
useful  athletics  never  are.  I should  add,  however,  that 
the  stockings  were  mended  too.  And  the  small  sticks 
that  we  chopped  and  wheeled  made  the  best  possible 
kindling  for  our  open  wood  fires ; while  at  the  same  time 
we  cleared  up  our  beautiful  woodland  a little.  But 
people  could  never  understand.  Years  after  that,  one 
day  when  we  came  back  from  the  woods  in  extremely 
correct  costume,  fresh  short  dresses  of  linsey  that  would 
not  easily  tear  nor  burn, — we  met  a party  of  visitors 
at  the  door.  To  our  amazement,  we  found  that  they 
thought  that  we  actually  felled  the  trees  ourselves. 
Judge  of  our  neighbourhood  reputation. 

“Sept.  15th.  The  girls  churned  and  I worked  over 
5 or  6 pounds  of  beautiful  butter.  Gave  Anna  her 


Riches  Take  Wings  181 

lesson  which  I omitted  yesterday.  Examined  the 
girls  a little  in  Marshall,  but  they  could  not  give  me 
satisfactory  answers.  Went  out  and  chopped  awhile 
just  before  dark.  Father  came  up  in  the  evening, 
and  we  had  an  excellent  supper  of  warm  rusk,  and 
peaches  afterwards,  of  which  last  he  brought  up  a 
great  basketful.  Drew  awhile  today:  the  old  peasant’s 
other  hand  and  part  of  one  sleeve  and  part  of  the  other. 
Very  well  satisfied.” 

Unwearied  painstaking  marked  all  she  did;  to  slight, 
was  not  in  her.  And  so  here  with  the  drawing.  The 
eyes  going  from  copy  to  paper  and  from  paper  to  copy, 
measuring  over  and  over  again  each  short  line ; a dot 
here,  and  a dot  there,  and  then  more  study,  and  very 
slow  progress.  One  hand,  a part  of  each  sleeve,  and  a 
“satisfied”  young  artist! 

“Sept.  28th.  The  journal  lags,  and  how  should  it  not  ? 
for  I am  turned  housekeeper ! at  least  I skim  the  milk 
and  work  over  the  butter  and  tell  Mary  what  we  will 
have  for  breakfast,  and  get  out  soap  and  sugar,  and 
make  johnny  cake  and  pudding  sauce  now  and  then. 
And  besides  I am  making  a frock  or  part  of  one  for 
Aunty.  I don’t  practise  much,  and  I scarce  read  any 
except  Marshall,  but  I go  out  to  chop  and  to  saw.  Now 
to-day  for  an  example.  Before  breakfast  I skimmed 
milk ; after  breakfast  we  rowed  round  to  the  little  bay 
on  the  north  side  of  the  Island,  whereabouts  we  stayed 
while  father  went  to  the  dike.  I rowed  them  all  the 
way  home  with  both  oars — a great  feat — but  I had  a 
strong  tide  to  help  me.  Made  floating  island  for  dinner. 
Father  was  to  go  down  in  the  Highlander,  so  we  had  to 
have  tea  early.  I sewed  a little,  idled  a little,  and  now 
here  I am  scribbling  a page  in  this  book  which  all  the 
while  I have  n’t  much  mind  to.  So  I ’ll  let  it  alone  and 


182 


Susan  Warner 


play  jackstraws  I believe,  and  yet  I am  almost  too 
stupid  for  that.” 

‘ ‘ Oct.  3rd . I have  been  quite  too  busy  to  attend  to 
my  Journal.  Aunt  Fanny  and  Anna  expect  to  go 
to  Hudson  to-morrow,  if  Uncle  Thomas  comes  up  to- 
night; for  we,  that  is  Fanny  and  I,  must  not  be  left 
quite  alone.  I am  to  keep  house,  so  I have  been 
seeing  and  hearing  how  I am  to  manage  various 
matters.  Yesterday  I learnt  how  to  make  paste,  so 
that  we  may  have  pumpkin  pies  while  they  are  gone. 
I made  butter  yesterday  morning  and  then  made  the 
paste  for  two  peach  pies,  under  Aunty’s  superinten- 
dence. Late  in  the  day  we  rowed  round  to  the  dike 
nearly,  but  not  quite,  and  father  went  on  land  the  rest 
of  the  way.  Father  brought  up  a large  basket  of 
peaches  Saturday  evening,  so  we  have  feasted.  No 
lessons  this  week,  nor  Marshall  for  some  days.  Very 
little  practising,  ditto  reading — a good  deal  of  sewing — 
some  chopping;  no  sawing,  ’cause  of  wet.  The  moss 
just  like  a saturated  sponge.  Father  finished  the  Fair 
Maid  of  Perth.  I hope  Uncle  T.  will  come  and  let  the 
folks  go,  for  there  is  no  pleasure  in  waiting  when  every- 
thing is  ready.” 

“Thursday.  We  had  given  him  up  and  had  eaten 
our  peaches  when  he  came.  Nevertheless  his  coming 
did  not  better  the  matter,  for  he  could  not  stay  but  till 
Friday,  and  as  they  concluded  it  was  not  worth  while 
for  father  to  go  only  to  Hudson,  Aunty  and  Anna  went 
off  by  themselves  this  bright  morning  in  the  Albany.  I 
begin  to  feel  as  if  I should  be  glad  to  see  them  back 
again.” 

So  much  was  made  of  even  a short  journey  alone,  for 
a woman,  in  those  days.  The  journal  goes  on : 

“When  they  were  gone,  I locked  up  my  keys,  swept 


Riches  Take  Wings  183 

and  put  in  order  father’s  study,  and  set  things  to  rights 
generally.  The  house  is  in  order,  empty  and  quiet  as 
any  lover  of  solitude  need  desire.  However,  I am  not 
given  to  feeling  lonely.” 

11  Friday.  Really,  if  I were,  I think  I have  been 
rather  too  busy  today  to  have  any  room  in  my  head  for 
such  nonsense.  Till  20  minutes  past  11  I have  not 
been  quiet,  except  a few  minutes  before  and  during 
breakfast.  I feel  as  if  I had  something  less  than  a 
mountain  on  my  shoulders.  I mean  to  keep  a particular 
journal  while  they  are  gone ; for  this  is  the  first  time  I 
have  had  the  care  of  a household,  and  I have  been  in  a 
quandary  three  times  today  already.  I got  up  and 
skimmed  the  milk  the  first  thing  this  morning,  and 
debated  with  myself  whether  I should  have  an  Indian 
cake  or  griddle  cakes  for  breakfast.  Settled  the  ques- 
tion in  favour  of  the  latter,  as  I had  not  butter  enough 
for  the  former.  After  breakfast  looked  over  a basket 
of  clothes,  and  then  occurred  doubt  the  second,  as  to 
what  I should  do  with  a torn  shirt  of  father’s.  Not 
settled;  or  settled  to  ask  Aunty.  Then  while  Fanny 
was  churning,  dusted  the  parlour,  then  worked  over 
the  butter,  then  trimmed  the  lamp.  Then  came  the 
great  doubt  about  dinner ; whether  I should  have  roast 
lamb  again  today,  or  leave  it  till  tomorrow  and  have 
codfish  and  potatoes ; and  whether  (as  there  was  some 
stale  bread)  I should  have  a bread  pudding,  there  being 
at  present  plenty  of  peaches.  Quite  unable  to  decide 
this  last  question,  I threw  on  my  hat  and  ran  or  walked 
away  to  father  on  the  road  and  consulted  him;  which 
consultation,  as  might  have  been  expected,  resulted  in 
favour  of  the  pudding.  Came  in  and  told  Mary,  and 
washed  the  raisins,  and  came  and  wrote  journal. 
Made  pudding  sauce.  Practised.  After  dinner  father 


1 84 


Susan  Warner 


went  with  Fanny  and  me  to  the  chestnut  trees  in  the 
open  field,  but  the  nuts  were  not  yet  ripe.  Walked 
over  the  hill  to  the  bam  with  Fanny.  I have  been 
going  about  a great  deal  to-day.” 

“I  ran  or  walked” — nothing  could  be  more  like  her 
than  that  sentence ; with  her,  conscientiousness  came 
near  a fault.  At  one  time  (I  think  it  was  a long  time 
too)  she  could  hardly  be  coaxed  to  say  anything  without 
an  “if”;  you  could  rarely  bring  her  to  a direct  asser- 
tion. That  passed  away  in  good  measure,  but  its  deep 
root  remained.  For  absolute,  unwavering,  inevitable 
truth,  I never  saw  anyone  like  her.  The  little  subter- 
fuges, the  small  concealments,  even  “the  best  face  upon 
things”  were  all  foreign  to  her  nature.  Even  that 
withholding  which  is  sometimes  wise,  came  hard. 
She  could  keep  another’s  secret  within  bolts  and  bars 
that  yet  made  no  show;  keep  it,  unguessed.  But  for 
things  touching  only  herself,  things  not  a trust,  she 
was  always  more  ready  to  tell  them  than  to  hide ; 
liking  best  to  be  valued — like  a chain — by  the  strength 
of  the  weakest  link.  “Let  my  friends  take  me  and 
mend  me”  was  a favourite  motto.  She  was  now  about 
nineteen.  That  same  fall  she  wrote  this  letter. 

Thursday , Nov.  ist. 

“My  dearest  Aunty: 

“You  have  been  looking  for  a letter  I am  sure,  and  so 
have  I been  thinking  of  writing,  but  there  have  been 
plenty  of  things  to  take  up  my  thoughts  and  my  time. 
Today  for  instance,  I meant  to  write  to  you  in  the  af- 
ternoon. Well,  first  of  all,  I went  out  and  chopped  a 
little  while,  then  I went  over  the  hill  to  the  bam  with 
father,  and  stayed  there  some  time  looking  at  the 
cattle;  on  my  return  we  churned,  which  today  took  a 


Riches  Take  Wings  185 

good  while,  worked  over  the  butter  and  arranged  af- 
fairs in  the  closet  a little,  and  then  came  dinner.  After 
dinner  I went  out  to  chop  again,  and  chopped  a good 
while.  Came  in  and  arranged  my  dress,  skimmed  some 
milk  for  the  pigs,  and  then  I was  cold,  and  when  I was 
warm  it  was  too  late ; so  here  I am  writing  to  you  by 
lamplight,  after  tea;  and  as  I wish  to  send  this  early 
tomorrow  morning,  it  must  be  more  short  and  hasty 
than  otherwise  it  need  be. 

“It  is  quite  cold  all  of  a sudden.  Yesterday  we  had 
a little  sprinkling  of  snow,  and  this  morning  our  window 
was  prettily  frosted ; and  in  the  milk  room  the  ther- 
mometer was  a little  over  33  degrees.  We  are  scarcely 
ready  for  such  weather  yet.  However,  father  went 
yesterday  to  Newburg  and  got  the  stove  and  sundry 
other  things,  nuts  and  apples  among  the  number. 
So  you  see  you  will  not  leave  all  the  good  things  behind 
you.  And  when  are  you  coming?  I want  to  see  you, 
though  not  because  I am  tired  of  housekeeping,  or 
lonely;  I am  too  busy  and  much  too  pleasantly  em- 
ployed for  that.  I hope  dear  Anna  is  perfectly  well, 
and  has  been  enjoying  herself  very  much  since  she  be- 
came so.  But  I hope  also  that  you  and  she  will  be  as 
glad  to  come  home  as  you  were  to  go.  Father  told  you 
what  he  had  been  about  the  last  time  he  went  down. 
He  was  at  the  fair  and  elsewhere  buying  blood  cattle. 
I think  it  may  be  pleasure  enough  when  you  come,  to 
shew  them  to  you,  and  so  I may  indulge  myself  also  in 
the  pleasure  of  telling  you  a little  about  them  now. 
The  beauty  of  the  whole,  in  my  opinion,  is  White  Rose, 
a heifer  three  years  old,  pure  white- — and  pure  Durham 
blood ; very  different  from  ordinary  cows  I assure  you. 
Fairstar  is  a beautiful  cow,  part  Devon  and  part  Dur- 
ham. Trusty  is  another  pure  Durham,  with  the 


Susan  Warner 


1 86 

exception  of  a little  American  blood  a few  generations 
back.  Dolly  is  an  eight  months  calf,  pure  Durham,  of 
excellent  figure.  Arab  is  a yearling  bull,  Durham  again, 
very  handsome.  The  other  cows,  calves,  and  heifers, 
are  all  half  or  three  quarters  Durham ; there  are  twelve 
in  all.  I am  sure  they  wdll  interest  you  as  they  do  us. 
Anna  wTill  like  to  hear  the  puppies  are  the  nicest  little 
fellowTs  that  can  be ; Don  and  Dido  and  Sancho. 

‘ ‘ I am  cold  and  have  wTitten  enough.  Give  my  love 
to  Aunt  Nancy.  I suppose  you  are  no  longer  with 
Grandpa. 

“Yours  affectionately, 

“S.  B.  Warner.” 

That  winter  and  also  the  next  we  spent  at  the  Island. 
Bits  of  her  journal  (written  in  French  for  practice)  give 
the  story. 

“ September.  I had  to  break  off  my  journal  to  go  to 
row,  and  I cannot  write  long  now,  for  we  must  put 
ourselves  at  the  tea  table  very  soon.  Father  goes  to 
the  city  this  evening.  It  is  very  difficult  this  writing 
when  it  must  be  in  French;  my  words  do  not  come 
promptly;  I have  to  seek  them.” 

“ Sept.  igth.  We  expect  father  tonight,  and  it  is 
possible  that  my  uncle  may  come  too.  He  is  going  to 
France  the  first  of  October.  Then  we  shall  be  more 
alone  than  ever;  and  for  a good  while  we  have  accus- 
tomed ourselves  not  to  see  many  people.  But  it  is 
easy  to  go ; and  it  is  for  him  to  judge  what  will  be  for 
his  happiness.” 

“Sept.  2 ist.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  write  a 
little  although  I have  no  great  mind  to  it.  And  what 
to  say?  I will  say  all  that  comes  into  my  head.  I have 
just  been  reading  Tasso  with  Anna.  I take  much  pleas- 


i«7 


Riches  Take  Wings 

ure  in  that  occupation,  and  so  does  she.  I have  just 
stayed  in  my  chair  all  day,  and  that  is  fatiguing.  I 
have  given  the  girls  their  geography  lesson,  and  I have 
read  Moliere,  which  amuses  me  deliciously.  Father 
reads  Rob  Roy  every  evening.  I do  not  too  well  like 
these  novels ; they  make  me  think  of  nothing  else ; that 
is  vexatious.  Nevertheless  I like  to  read  them  some- 
times, and  I want  to  hear  father  read  them.  I wish  I 
could  know  if  I write  well,  but  there  is  no  one  here  to 
tell  me.” 

“ joth  Sept.  I do  not  write  often  enough  to  gain 
much.  I am  not  ignorant  that  much  is  wanting  to 
make  me  write  well.  I fear  I shall  not  do  it  in  a long 
time.  But  I will  keep  on;  that  is  the  way  to  succeed.” 

“Oct.  yth.  We  have  much  to  do  at  present.  As  for 
Aunt  Fanny,  she  has  much  too  much  on  her  hands. 
Truly  the  times  are  changed,  since  we  were  in  our 
town  house.  For  me,  I have  so  many  things  to  do, 
that  I can  hardly  conceive  it  possible  to  do  them  all. 
At  least  I don’t  do  it.  There  is  my  chapter,  Tasso  to 
read,  a geography  lesson  to  give,  an  Italian  lesson  to 
Anna,  a French  lesson  to  Ellen,  two  music  lessons  a 
week  to  Fanny,  practising  music  myself,  reading  French 
history,  and  finally  writing  French,  besides  many  other 
things  that  I have  not  the  time  to  write  down.” 

It  may  interest  some  of  the  younger  folk  to  know 
how  we  studied  geography,  ancient  and  modern.  My 
sister  prepared  a boxful  of  slips  of  stiff  paper,  writing 
on  each — in  old  English  text — the  name  of  a city,  a 
country,  a state,  or  some  other  big  mundane  thought. 
From  this  box  we  drew  our  daily  questions,  then  on  the 
map  studied  them  out  as  thoroughly  as  we  could; 
size,  boundaries,  rivers,  mountains — all  that  could  be 
learned.  It  was  a far  better  game  than  “Tiddle-de- 


i88 


Susan  Warner 


Winks.”  Our  history  game,  too,  was  delightful,  and 
wrought  out  in  the  same  way.  Richard  the  first  and 
all  about  him;  then  “Warriors  of  his  reign,”  “Learned 
men,”  “Poets,”  “Events” — all  on  separate  slips;  and 
all  answers  to  be  dug  out  with  our  own  hard  work 
from  our  store  of  books.  My  father  believed  in  such 
groupings. 

“ i oik  Oct.  I know  nothing  better  to  do  at  present 
than  to  write  in  my  journal.  I have  a very  good  pen, 
and  it  will  serve  to  distract  the  thoughts  which  have 
held  me  too  long.  For  a person  of  good  sense,  I am  the 
greatest  fool  in  the  world,  for  I torment  myself  about 
nothing  and  for  nothing.  Thus  last  night  I sat  up  till 
it  was  very  late ; I do  not  know  at  what  hour  I went  to 
bed.  Novels  are  bad  things  for  people  made  as  I am. 
The  best  way  is  to  let  them  alone.  I wish  my  journal 
to  be  the  deposit  of  my  sentiments,  of  my  thoughts, 
and  of  what  passes  here  at  home,  especially  in  the 
minds.” 

“Sat  up”' — If  she  had  filled  out  the  description,  she 
would  probably  have  added  “on  the  floor.”  That  was 
her  favourite  place  at  night,  when  she  had  a story,  or  a 
question,  or  a worry,  in  her  head ; and  you  might  as  well 
have  besought  the  floor  itself  to  rise  and  come  to  bed. 
Once  deep  in  a dream  about  a book,  or  over  it,  by  day 
or  night,  and  she  was  impervious  to  sight  or  sound. 
You  might  call  her  a half-dozen  times,  and  she  would 
smile  over  her  page,  or  gloom  at  her  vision,  without  the 
slightest  notice-taking  of  you;  answering  at  last  to 
push  and  pull,  with  a calm,  bewildered,  deprecating 
look,  that  came  from  the  antipodes.  But  she  had  a 
healthy  young  appetite,  and  that  was  a help  in  getting 
her  to  meals. 

“ nth  Oct.  I have  neglected  many  things  today 


Riches  Take  Wings  189 

that  I ought  to  have  done ; I have  been  in  the  clouds, 
that  is  to  say,  I have  been  very  silly ; but  unhappily  I am 
not  the  less  that  for  knowing  it.” 

“ i?th  Oct.  It  is  very  warm,  but  I do  not  dare  to 
open  either  the  door  or  the  windows  for  fear  of  the 
wasps,  which  spread  themselves  about  in  great  num- 
bers on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  and  fly  all  about 
it ; and  I do  not  like  their  stings.  I could  write  much 
if  I had  more  time.  If  ever  we  come  back  to  the  state 
of  doing  just  what  we  like,  and  nothing  else,  I think  I 
shall  have  great  joy.  Mr.  Alden  came  to  see  us  yestei- 
day.  After  tea  we  had  a most  enjoyable  conversation. 
I need  not  say  we , for  I took  little  part  in  it;  but  it 
gave  me  great  pleasure.  They  spoke  of  Washington, 
of  the  Revolutions,  English  and  American,  of  Greek, 
of  Homer,  and  of  different  poets.  I delight  to  listen 
to  my  father. 

“Tomorrow  will  be  Sunday.  How  quick  the  Sun- 
days succeed  each  other.  Time  passes  too  fast,  ah 
too  fast.  One  cannot  delay  it,  and  all  one  can  do  is  to 
turn  it  to  account.” 

Yes,  there  was  much  to  do;  and  the  household  ex- 
penses were  clipped  on  all  sides.  Dress,  and  journeys, 
and  servants — those  pleasant  little  externals  of  life, — 
were  rigidly  kept  down.  So  many  people  had  to  be  em- 
ployed out  of  doors  (if  the  property  was  ever  to  produce 
anything)  that  we  in  the  house  learned  to  help  our- 
selves. And  my  Sybarite  sister  would  have  liked  to 
push  the  work  back,  with  both  her  hands. 

“ 27th  Oct.  Aunt  Nancy  is  here,  but  not  for  long. 
She  will  leave  us  Ellen  for  the  winter.  There  is  the  bell. 
Father  will  be  here  soon,  perhaps.  We  expect  him 
tonight.  I have  tired  myself  today  with  various 
labours.  I should  like  to  see  the  day  when  I need  not 


Susan  Warner 


190 

work.  Nevertheless,  I find  myself  the  better  for  it; 
it  does  me  good ; I know  it.  But  however  that  may  be, 
I do  not  like  to  wash  dishes,  nor  dust  furniture,  nor 
to  sweep  rooms,  nor  to  set  the  table — and  there  is 
father.” 

“ 28th  Oct.  I have  never  liked  to  read  those  journals 
where  people  speak  very  freely  of  their  most  private 
sentiments  and  most  secret  thoughts.  Nevertheless, 
perhaps  I should  be  willing  to  write  in  that  fashion  if  I 
was  very  sure  nobody  would  ever  see  it ; and  it  is  even 
possible  that  I may  do  it, at  all  risks,  but  not  just  now.” 

“29th  Oct.  Now  the  evenings  are  long,  I must  make 
better  use  of  them  than  I have  lately.  Of  course  I have 
written  French,  but  it  is  needful  to  sew  as  well.  I 
ought  not  to  leave  Aunt  Fanny  to  do  all  the  work 
alone.  I like  better  to  write  or  to  read  than  to  sew  or 
work.  I think  I make  progress.  I love  to  read  Sevigne. 
It  is  one  of  the  finest  books  I have  ever  seen.” 

“ 30th  Oct.  This  month  the  weather  has  been  of  the 
finest ; one  could  not  enjoy  it  enough.  We  took  father 
to  the  north  bay  this  morning.  He  left  us  alone  there 
for  an  hour.  We  busied  ourselves  cracking  and  picking 
out  nuts,  eating  apples,  and  rowing  hither  and  thither 
on  the  bay.  There  is  nothing  pleasanter  than  to  be 
in  the  boat  when  the  weather  is  fine,  and  do  nothing.” 

11 2nd  Nov.  I should  like  to  write  a little,  but  I am 
not  as  lively  at  night  as  I am  in  the  morning.  There 
is  no  remedy  for  that.  Often  it  is  not  possible  for  me 
to  write  before  afternoon,  and  perhaps  not  then.  Our 
good  cook  has  gone  to  N.  Y.  for  two  days ; thus  we  have 
all  the  work  of  the  household  on  our  hands;  that  is 
too  much.  Aunty  is  tired  and  I am  stupid.  It  is  true 
that  for  me,  I should  not  complain.  I have  not  worked 
too  much ; for  Aunt  Fanny  it  is  different.  The  children 


Riches  Take  Wings  19 1 

are  gone  to  bed.  Father,  Aunty,  and  I are  going  to 
have  a cup  of  chocolate.” 

“Nov.  4th.  We  have  been  to  row  today.  Our  cook 
has  come  back.  I am  very  glad  of  it.  I teach  Ellen 
French;  she  is  a very  good  little  scholar.  Anna  and 
Ellen  laugh  half  the  time.  I have  never  seen  such 
laughers.” 

“5th  Nov.  I shall  be  well  pleased  when  all  the  out- 
door affairs  are  in  order.  At  present  there  is  nothing 
but  bringing  stone,  raising  walls,  killing  pigs,  digging 
wells,  burying  cabbages,  building  hot  houses,  shingling 
roofs,  and  making  pig  pens.  One  wearies  to  hear  it  all 
talked  of  all  the  time.  And  within  doors  there  is  occu- 
pation enough.  But  as  soon  as  one  reads  or  writes, 
what  do  all  these  things  matter?  One  troubles  oneself 
about  them  no  more,  they  are  no  longer  worth  anything, 
unless  perhaps  they  make  one  enjoy  one’s  ease  all  the 
more.” 

“ 13th  Nov.  Last  night,  after  Anna  and  Ellen  had 
gone  to  bed,  the  fancy  took  Aunt  Fanny  to  have  some 
chocolate.  I brought  the  saucepan;  she  boiled  the 
chocolate;  we  remembered  that  A.  and  E.  were  very 
fond  of  chocolate,  that  they  would  be  sorry  not  to  have 
some.  Fanny  went  to  tell  them.  They  got  up  and 
dressed  directly  and  came  down.  They  get  cakes, 
the  chocolate  is  ready,  we  take  it;  we  chatter  and 
laugh  sufficiently;  and  afterwards  we  all  go  to  bed.” 

“14th  Nov.  I remember  being  well  content,  four 
years  ago,  to  be  only  sixteen.  Now  I am  more  than 
twenty.  Times  have  changed  since  then,  and  as  for  me 
I believe  lam  changed  too.  Then  I was  happier,  gayer, 
more  exempt  from  care  than  anybody  in  the  world. 
Now,  although  I am  happy  and  perhaps  yet  more  gay 
than  formerly,  I know  well  that  I am  a woman  and  no 


192 


Susan  Warner 


more  a child ; and  that  it  must  be  that  I encounter  not 
cares  only,  but  real  sorrows  in  life.  To  prepare  myself 
for  them  is  at  present  my  duty.” 

15th  Nov.  I have  spent  the  most  part  of  the  morning 
ironing.  I am  a little  tired.  Formerly  I had  more  time 
than  I wanted ; now,  I should  be  very  glad  to  have  all 
that  I then  lost.  I do  not  know  how  I can  be  as  gay  as 
I am  nowadays,  for  it  is  possible  that  we  are  to  be 
ruined, — what  people  call  ruined.  Perhaps  I do  not 

know  what  ruin  means.  Certainly  I have  had  little 
experience  of  misfortune.  But  each  one  must  smell 
of  his  own  nosegay.” 

The  young  hands  were  full,  and  yet  the  young  life 
never  sank  down  to  the  level  of  those  many  prosaic 
occupations. 

“Aunt  Fanny  is  sick,”  she  writes  another  day. 
“Father  is  very  busy.  For  me,  I have  made  pumpkin 
pies  today;  I am  reading  at  present  Sevigne  and  l’His- 
toire  de  France ; this  in  the  morning,  before  breakfast ; 
the  other  at  all  times.  I take  much  pleasure  in  both, 
but  I read  very  little  in  them  each  day.” 

Two  days  later. 

“We  are  all  so  busy.  I have  never  seen  such  a time. 
I am  not  able  to  do  all  I wTould.  I do  not  study  Italian, 
I play  but  very  little  on  the  piano,  I do  not  read 
much,  I do  not  even  write  every  day.  I do  not  sing  at 
all,  except  on  Sundays.  I do  not  even  give  the  lessons 
regularly.  But  for  me,  it  is  a little  matter;  father  and 
aunty  have  the  worst;  they  are  the  ones  to  be  really 
pitied.” 

Never  complaining  or  hanging  back,  and  never  losing 
her  taste  for  higher  things. 

“My  dear  Aunt”  (Aunt  Nancy)  “came  yesterday 
morning,  just  as  we  were  at  breakfast.  It  is  a great 


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pleasure  to  see  our  dear  Mme.  Blanchefleur  ” (so  we  had 
named  her)  “but  it  is  also  a pain  to  say  goodbye ; but  it 
has  to  be.  There  are  almost  no  pleasures  in  this  world 
that  are  not  either  preceded  or  followed  by  pain. 
My  dear  father  went  to  town  tonight ; his  affairs  give 
him  trouble  enough.  I do  not  know  what  is  to  become 
of  us.  It  is  very  cold.  The  north  windows  are  cov- 
ered with  white  frost.  The  river  is  not  frozen  yet, 
but  it  will  be  soon  if  this  weather  continues.” 

“At  last  she  is  gone.  The  poor  children  Anna  and 
Ellen  are  much  afflicted.  Separations  are  cruel  things ; 
but  for  me,  I feel  them  less  than  anybody.  I have  a 
little  fear  that  I am  too  much  given  to  self-love.  We 
are  close  upon  winter.  Well,  while  I have  life  and 
health,  I want  to  fulfill  my  duties  much  better  than  I 
have  up  to  this  time.  I have  two  faults  which  I ought 
to  correct — I am  too  idle,  lacking  in  application,  and  I 
want  patience.  Lam  very  wrong  to  speak  as  I often 
do  to  Aunt  Fanny,  and  even  to  whoever  it  may  be  that 
crosses  my  humour.” 

“ Friday . For  two  days  I have  been  a little  out  of 
sorts,  but  today  I am  well.  I am  going  to  teach  Fanny 
to  draw  with  crayons.  Truly,  I have  things  enough  on 
my  hands.  If  I can  attend  to  them  all,  it  will  not  mat- 
ter. It  seems  that  the  education  of  Fanny  and  Anna 
depends  on  nobody  but  me,  and  now  I have  Ellen  also ; 
and  I like  it  well  enough  provided  I have  the  time.” 

“Dec.  2nd.  Father  is  in  town.  Alas,  he  carries  a 
heavy  burden,  and  we  cannot  help  him.  He  bears 
up  passably  well,  but  truly  there  are  times  when  he 
feels  it  only  too  much.  Far  from  us,  alone  in  the  midst 
of  a multitude ; between  the  chagrins  and  the  sorrows 
that  are  in  his  path,  sometimes  he  thinks  he  shall  die ; 
so  he  told  us  the  other  day.” 


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“ 3rd.  I have  just  finished  reading  ‘Roxobel’  aloud. 
It  is  a pretty  little  book.  After  that  I think  I shall 
read  Maria  Edgeworth’s  ‘Moral  Tales.’  Fanny  has 
never  read  them,  nor  Ellen ; and  as  for  me,  though  I 
had  read  them  a hundred  times,  I love  them  always. 
My  dear  father ’s  still  in  town.  I have  had  much 
leisure  today.  So  I have  had  a good  practice  on 
the  piano,  studied  history,  and  Tasso,  and  read  my 
chapter.  I have  not  read  French  with  Ellen — that  is 
bad.  I ought  not  to  miss  a single  day.” 

“ 4th  Dec.  Here  I am  at  the  last  page.  I wish 
absolutely  to  finish  this  book  this  very  evening,  if  pos- 
sible, but  I doubt  about  it ; the  weakness  of  my  eyes 
hinders  me  much;  and  there  remain  fifteen  great  lines 
to  fill.  I will  do  my  best.  I am  tired  of  this  old 
journal  book.  Today  I have  made  butter,  and  ironed. 
I have  played  on  the  piano ; I have  read  Italian ; I have 
made  the  girls  write  half  of  a history  lesson.  I have 
read  French  with  Ellen.  We  expect  father  this  even- 
ing; but  it  is  late,  the  boats  do  not  appear  yet.  We 
have  had  today  one  of  the  highest  tides  we  have  ever 
had.  I fear  it  may  damage  the  north  dike.  It  has 
gone  over  the  old  south  dike,  and  inundated  the 
meadows,  at  least  in  part.  I should  like  to  know  what 
has  become  of  the  stacks  of  hay.  It  is  a bad  business. 
I have  finished  my  task,  and  I stop  very  willingly.” 

So  ends  the  French  journal, — and  for  two  or  three 
years  documents  of  any  sort  are  few.  No  spare  money 
for  journal  books  and  little  time  to  write ; and  as  we  were 
constantly  at  home  there  were  few  letters,  save  now 
and  then  one  to  my  father  in  town.  But  in  the  old 
Revolutionary  house  the  checker  work  of  life  went  on 
in  pretty  full  measure,  nevertheless;  and  the  young 
hearts  could  not  be  kept  down.  My  father  said  we  were 


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laughing  when  he  went  out,  laughing  when  he  came  in, 
and  he  supposed  were  laughing  all  the  time  between. 
Certainly  if  sober  looks  came  they  were  not  kept  for 
him.  What  should  we  have  done  in  all  those  cloudy 
days,  if  my  father’s  strength  and  cheer  had  not  seemed 
to  us  of  more  importance  than  anything  else  in  all  the 
world?  We  caught  up  our  own  courage,  to  help  lift 
his. 

What  though  then  the  path  may  lie 

Where  sands  are  burning,  and  streams  run  dry? 

What  though  mirage  be  the  fairest  view? — 

Palms  of  victory  grow  there  too ! 


CHAPTER  XI 


SHADOW  AND  LIGHT 

If  it  be  true,  as  the  world’s  history  seems  to  say, 
that  the  Lord  has  always  his  agents  prepared  and  ready 
to  take  the  lead,  in  any  great  world-crisis;  so  also,  I 
doubt  not,  does  he  secretly  shape  and  train  his  humbler 
servants,  for  their  unseen  road,  their  unguessed  life. 

Aunt  Fanny  knew  most  of  the  perplexities  that  were 
closing  in  around  my  father;  but  even  he  himself  never 
dreamed  of  the  depth  of  evil  that  was  at  work  against 
him.  For  he  was  of  that  rare  type  which  cannot  even 
hnagine  a breach  of  honour.  Practised  lawyer  though 
he  was,  and  firm  believer  in  the  total  depravity  of  man- 
kind, he  never  could  bring  it  down  to  the  individual 
specimen.  Not  if  the  risk  concerned  himself.  “I  had 
rather  be  wTronged,  than  to  doubt  everybody,”  he  said; 
living  up  to  the  lovely,  dangerous  maxim,  and  taking 
the  consequences  with  patient  bravery.  In  all  the 
years  that  followed,  wThen  surely  he  was  tried,  if  ever 
man  was,  I never  heard  my  dear  father  complain  of 
his  hedged-in  way,  or  say  one  unchristian  word  of  the 
men  who  planted  and  tended  the  thorns.  And  to  this 
day,  some  of  the  oldest  inhabitants  hereabouts  speak 
with  wondering  reverence  of  “Mr.  Warner’s  patience.” 
Never  losing  his  trust  in  God,  never  staying  his  own 
eager  efforts;  never  murmuring,  never  gloomy;  never 
too  absorbed  for  his  children’s  talk  and  needs.  Into 
the  wrong-doing  of  those  very  troublous  times,  I wish 

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From  a Water  Color  by  Anna  B.  Warner 


S5JtS«i»0V8 


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Shadow  and  Light 

to  go  as  little  as  may  be ; let  hatchets  lie  where  the  leaves 
of  so  many  years  have  heaped  and  hidden  them. 
Most  of  the  men  concerned  have  passed  away ; and  there 
may  be  no  one  now  living,  who  will  understand  and 
place  the  few  details  which  must  be  given,  for  my 
story’s  sake. 

When  my  father  bought  the  Island,  he  purchased  also 
the  large  tract  of  meadowland  that  fills  the  old  east 
channel  of  the  river,  wishing  to  have  it  dry  and  not  wet, 
for  health  and  for  profit’s  sake.  There  had  long  been 
mud  dikes  at  either  end;  but  these,  constantly  riddled 
by  the  musk  rats,  were  of  little  use.  At  once,  before 
he  came  there  to  live,  my  father  began  to  build  dikes 
of  gravel, — broad  and  high  and  strong.  The  north 
dike  was  already  finished,  the  meadows  were  drying  off, 
the  upland  grass  beginning  to  come  in.  I think  the 
south  dike  was  also  under  way. 

It  was  late  summer  on  the  Island;  my  father  was 
away  in  the  western  part  of  the  State,  attending  the 
old  Court  of  Errors,  and  with  a very  important  case  in 
hand. 

Then  one  morning  the  men  came  to  my  aunt,  and 
told  her  that  one  of  our  geographical  neighbours  had 
taken  a posse  of  his  hands,  the  night  before,  and  cut 
through  our  north  dike. 

Aunt  Fanny  decided  at  once  that  my  father  must 
have  no  disturbed  mind  for  his  case ; and  she  would  not 
send  him  word.  “Cut  branches  and  fill  in  the  gap,” 
she  said,  “that  the  gravel  may  not  wash  away.”  This 
was  done. 

Two  nights  after,  there  were  three  cuts  made  in  the 
dike.  There  was  nothing  left  us  then,  but  to  wait  till 
my  father  came  home. 

Having  put  the  fast  improving  land  once  more  under 


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Susan  Warner 


water,  the  men  went  before  the  Grand  Jury  and 
indicted  my  father  “for  building  a nuisance.”  And  of 
course  he  sued  them  for  damages.  There  followed 
years  of  litigation;  it  seems  to  me  I grew  up  on  it; 
witnesses,  papers,  trials,  suits;  and  these  things  cost. 
What  the  rest  of  us  could  do  to  help  we  did ; went  with- 
out, drew  in,  economized  in  every  way;  and  copied  law 
papers  even  unto  stiff  wrists.  No  typewriters  then. 
But  meanwhile  the  river  flowed  in  and  out,  in  and  out, 
over  our  poor  meadows,  with  all  the  dollars  spent  on 
them  sinking  rapidly  beyond  our  reach.  My  sister 
had  had  beautiful  visions  of  “when  the  meadows  are 
drained  ” : that  would  never  be  seen  by  us.  I may  just 
add,  that  the  dike  troubles  lasted  for  years ; ending  in 
an  arbitration ; when  one  of  the  three  arbitrators  dined 
every  day  with  our  opponents,  and  the  anomalous  result 
was,  the  costs  to  the  other  party,  but  no  damages  to  us. 

“On  the  side  of  their  oppressors  was  power.”  I 
read  the  words  with  a strange  stricture  of  heart, 
sometimes;  but  if  “Stone  walls  do  not  a prison  make,” 
neither  does  poverty  make  one  poor.  Looking  back, 
I can  guess  a little  what  the  fight  and  struggle  were; 
but  through  it  all,  we  learned  to  cling  to  each  other,  in  a 
way  that  made  us  millionaires.  No  one  can  measure 
the  intense  strength  of  the  love  that  in  those  years  grew 
up  between  us  four.  What  did  my  father  mind,  after 
all,  while  he  had  us?  Or  we,  though  the  world  turned 
off  and  left  us,  if  only  it  did  not  distress  him!  And  life 
was  full;  not  only  of  work,  but  of  the  fine  experience 
which  thrives  on  the  stoniest  soil.  We  learned  what 
life  means , and  that  no  work  is  dry  which  is  done  with 
cheery  good  will,  for  a loving  purpose.  What  delight 
to  make  my  father’s  shirts,  and  to  iron  them,  as  daintily 
as  young  hands  could.  And  when  my  sister  in  her  zeal 


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made  the  neck  gathers  so  fine  that  they  would  not  go 
into  the  band,  what  fun  we  made  of  them  and  of  her! 
How  pleasant  to  cook  up  some  dainty  dish,  after  a tired 
day, — and  what  could  be  sweeter,  than  to  surprise  Aunt 
Fanny  with  some  bit  of  darning;  finished  and  not  left 
for  her  to  do.  At  one  or  two  of  the  holiday  times  when 
we  had  no  money  for  gifts,  my  sister  made  elaborate 
candy  boxes  for  my  cousin  Ellen  and  me ; elaborate  and 
big;  decorating  and  binding  with  little  pictures  and 
coloured  paper,  and  painting  dainty  motto  papers  for 
filling;  while  my  father  brought  the  candy  from  town. 
Often  he  helped  her  choose  the  mottoes,  sometimes 
wrote  them  out  of  his  own  head.  Perhaps  he  would 
add  for  each  child  a book  out  of  his  own  store;  and 
Aunt  Fanny  would  give  some  little  comfort  to  wear, 
made  by  her  own  dear  fingers.  We  all  tried  for  some- 
thing. 

During  all  our  strait  ness,  we  had  books  in  quan- 
tity; pictures  ditto ; engravings,  the  piano,  our  mother’s 
paint  box,  and  the  loveliest  abode  in  the  world. 

Thus  the  young  life  opened  into  young  womanhood, 
with  all  the  setting  changed,  and  only  herself  the  same. 
For  still  she  loved  power,  and  ease,  and  dreams ; and  still 
would  have  had  the  work  of  the  world  go  on  without  her 
handling.  To  hold  the  bridle,  to  manage  the  oars,  were 
always  a delight;  and  to  drive — if  she  held  the  reins. 
Otherwise,  she  was  wont  to  say  “the  horses  had  the  best 
of  it!  ” As  for  rowing,  the  old  West  Point  ferryman 
used  to  declare  that  except  Jenny  Lind,  when  she  was 
in  our  waters,  no  woman  ever  rowed  so  well  as  my  sis- 
ter. And  I fancy  the  masterful  spirit  helped  her,  even 
in  the  prosaic  housework  which  she  did  not  like;  for 
having  once  laid  hold  of  the  churn,  she  was  bound  to 
conquer. 


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The  next  winter  we  spent  in  town ; hearing  on  Sunday 
the  most  blessed  of  old-time  sermons  from  Dr.  Skinner, 
and  four  wonderful  discourses  from  Mr.  Kirk,  in  the 
old  Mercer  St.  Church. 

A soul  loving  truth  for  truth’s  sake,  seldom,  I suspect, 
plays  tricks  with  itself;  and  there  was  never  a time,  I 
think,  when  my  sister  was  not  a through  and  through 
believer  in  the  Bible.  She  knew  its  words  were  true ; 
its  requirements  just ; to  obey  them  was  another  matter. 
The  strong  self  will,  the  beloved  self  pleasing,  were  in 
her  way;  while  a keen  relish  for  “the  kingdoms  of  this 
world,  and  the  glory  of  them,’’  had  grown  with  her 
years.  Not  a bit  smothered  by  the  new  experiences, 
but  biding  its  time.  Yet  she  never  thought  of  abating 
the  Bible  authority  and  demands  by  even  a farthing 
weight;  and  was  always  eager  that  my  father  (our 
only  Church  member  then)  should  come  up  to  the 
highest  ideal  standard.  It  distressed  her  to  have  him 
even  miss  a prayer  meeting. 

I do  not  know  the  working  of  her  mind  through  those 
first  winter  months  in  town ; perhaps  she  hardly  knew 
it  herself ; but  one  small  thing  brought  sudden  light  and 
purpose.  This  I have  heard  her  tell. 

Walking  up  Waverley  Place  one  day,  she  met  an 
acquaintance  who  just  then  was  counted  a leader  of 
fashion.  And  as  they  passed,  this  woman’s  bow  was  so 
slight  and  cool,  that  it  had  almost  the  air  of  a rebuff. 
Whether  so  meant  or  not  does  not  matter;  it  seemed 
so  to  my  sister.  And  as  she  walked  on,  with  that  sense 
of  check  that  is  so  painful  to  a young  person,  all  her 
nerves  astir  at  the  supposed  slight,  she  said  in  her  heart 
that  she  would  put  her  happiness  in  a safer  place, 
beyond  the  reach  of  scornful  fingers.  She  would  have 
something  that  should  stand,  though  the  whole  world 


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Shadow  and  Light 

went  to  pieces.  It  was  the  old  cry  in  different  words : 
“But  now  they  desire  a better  country. ” 

For  me,  no  one  knew  that  for  the  last  six  months  I 
had  been  so  eager  a listener,  that  Sunday  after  Sunday 
I wrote  down  much  of  the  sermon  after  I came  home. 
What  that  meant  I never  guessed  myself,  until  one 
Sunday  in  March,  when  Dr.  Skinner  gave  out  the  first 
notice  of  the  April  Communion,  and  of  the  meetings 
of  the  Session  to  examine  those  who  wished  to  join 
the  Church.  Then,  words  I had  heard  Mr.  Kirk  say, 
sprang  up  before  me : ‘ ‘ Others  are  entering,  why  not 

you?  ” 

There  had  been  distributed  through  the  Church  that 
winter  little  printed  copies  of  the  beautiful  membership 
covenant,  with  a list  of  the  members.  I went  home 
this  day,  to  study  that.  It  lay  in  a closet  drawer; 
and  many,  many  times  a day  I would  jump  up  from  my 
work,  go  to  the  closet,  and  for  a minute  or  two  pore  over 
some  sentence  of  the  covenant.  Could  I say  this? 
Was  I ready  for  that?  I told  no  one,  and  nobody 
guessed;  silently  I thought  out  my  own  questions. 
It  seems  to  me  now,  as  I look  back,  that  I thought  of 
nothing  else. 

Of  my  sister’s  new  resolve  I knew  nothing;  I had  al- 
ways thought  her  good  enough  for  any  name  or  place. 
But  perhaps  there  was  something  in  the  air  that  told 
— or  I had  reached  the  point  where  I must  speak,  for 
one  day  I asked  her: 

‘ ‘ What  are  you  talking  to  father  so  much  about  ? ’ ’ 
And  turning  serious  eyes  upon  me  she  answered: 
“About  joining  the  Church.”  Then  I told  her  my  de- 
sire, and  she  told  father.  But  we  did  not  talk  much 
together,  even  then.  Each  heart  went  its  own  way 
silently,  sought  out  its  own  answers,  and  made  its 


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own  resolve.  Was  it  the  New  England  reserve,  of 
which  people  speak? — Perhaps;  I do  not  know.  My 
father  said  some  loving  words  to  me  about  my  new  pur- 
pose ; telling  me  it  had  been  our  mother’s  dearest  wish 
that  we  should  both  be  Christians ; but  I was  so  silent  a 
girl,  that  no  one  ever  tried  to  get  much  out  of  me ; and 
the  other  talks  I did  not  hear.  For  some  reason, — per- 
haps because  Dr.  Skinner  was  such  a personal  friend, — 
instead  of  our  going  before  the  Session,  he  came  to 
see  us ; bringing  with  him  the  senior  Elder,  Mr.  Francis 
Markoe;  a man  “greatly  beloved.”  It  was  late  after- 
noon of  the  2nd  of  April ; the  day  shutting  down  in 
heavy,  threatening  fog. 

Those  who  remember  Dr.  Skinner  will  need  no  telling 
of  his  words  and  looks;  and  to  others  I could  never 
give  the  picture.  So  grave,  so  loving,  so  wise,  so  ten- 
der ; and  with  that  wonderful  smile  coming  out  now  and 
then.  The  holy  face,  the  gentle  bend  of  the  head  at  the 
answer  to  some  question ; I see  it  all  again ; and  it  may 
comfort  those  who  are  so  greatly  afraid  of  “sound 
doctrine”  and  its  rigorous  ways,  to  know  that  we  were 
put  through  no  stiff  formula.  My  sister  said  after- 
wards, that  she  could  not  see  how  we  were  admitted, 
having  so  little  to  say.  But  this  Presbyterian  pastor 
and  Elder  kept  their  search  very  close  to  the  personal 
side  of  religion ; what  it  was  to  us,  what  we  were  willing 
it  should  be.  And  if  Mr.  Markoe  put  one  question 
deeper  than  most  young  converts  could  answer,  it 
was  only  touching  what  had  long  been  the  joy  and 
crown  of  his  own  life. 

“Do  you  love  holiness?”  he  asked  my  sister.  And 
she  was  silent  for  a little,  looking  down.  Then  her 
eyes  were  lifted,  and  with  a half  smile,  a look  as  lovely 
as  honest  truth  could  make  it,  she  answered: 


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Shadow  and  Light 

“I  do  not  know,  sir.”  But  I think,  as  I look  back, 
that  Mr.  Markoe  must  have  read  the  answer  in  her  face. 
And  then  Dr.  Skinner  turning  to  me,  asked  what  had 
moved  me  to  wish  to  be  a Christian. 

“He  that  hath  received  his  testimony,  hath  set  to 
his  seal  that  God  is  true.”  So  the  words  sprang  to  my 
lips;  but  I was  too  timid  to  say  them,  and  sat  quite 
silent. 

“You  do  not  think  religion  a melancholy  thing?” 
he  went  on,  after  pausing  a little.  And  I suppose  my 
joyous  cry  of:  “O  no,  Sir!” — answered  several  ques- 
tions at  once.  The  sagacious,  practised  men  were  at  no 
loss  to  see  that  we  were  in  the  deepest,  most  eager 
earnest.  In  the  words  of  one  of  our  dark-skinned 
sisters:  “I’s  no  free  mon’s  man;  praise  God,  I ’se  listed 
fo’  de  war.” 

So  they  went ; and  to  this  day  I never  go  by  the  old 
Fourth  Street  comer  without  seeing  again  the  two  dark 
figures,  as  in  the  deepening  gloom  they  took  the  diag- 
onal of  Washington  Square.  I stood  and  watched  them 
from  the  window,  while  my  sister  went  upstairs  and 
locked  herself  in;  disheartened  over  her  silence  and 
hesitation;  and  stayed  there  in  tears  and  prayers,  all 
through  the  thunderstorm  which  broke  over  the  city. 
Questioning  among  the  rest,  how  she  could  be  fit  to  join 
the  church  when  she  was  still  afraid  of  storms.  Says 
old  Matthew  Henry:  “The  child  that  cries  is  as  sure 
alive  as  the  child  that  laughs.” 

What  a sermon  Dr.  Skinner  preached  that  next 
Sunday!  My  father  said  it  seemed  just  meant  for  us 
two.  The  simplest  talk,  and  chiefly  in  plain  Bible 
words; taking  up  the  jailor’s  inquiry:  “What  must  I do 
to  be  saved?”  and  then  the  doubts,  difficulties,  hin- 
drances, of  some  sort  or  another,  which  one  soul  or 


Susan  Warner 


204 

another,  thinks  it  finds  between  itself  and  Christ. 
The  sinner  raising  his  objections;  the  loving  Saviour 
meeting  and  answering  them  one  by  one.  And  shall 
I ever  again  hear  the  wild  sweet  pathos  of  “Federal 
Street,”  without  hearing  also  the  words  that  went  with 
it  that  day. 

Behold  the  Saviour  at  thy  door, 

He  gently  knocks,  has  knocked  before 
Has  waited  long ; is  waiting  still ; 

You  treat  no  other  friend  so  ill. 

In  two  hearts  there,  at  least,  he  was  welcome,  and 
two  set  wide  the  door,  as  well  as  they  knew  how. 
And  the  allegiance  thus  sworn,  was  never  broken. 

I think  perhaps  my  sister’s  better  knowledge  of  me, 
our  real  intimacy,  began  there.  For  now  we  were  on 
ground  where  neither  years  nor  knowledge  went  for 
much.  So  with  one  thought  we  sang  together  in  the 
evenings: 


“O  that  my  load  of  sin  were  gone,” — 

“ Speak,  Lord,  the  trembling  sinner  cheer.” 

And  with  one  purpose  of  heart,  stood  side  by  side 
in  the  church,  giving  our  assent  to  the  loving  words  of 
the  Covenant : the  old-time  faith. 

“And  unto  this  Triune  God,  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost,  you  do  now  solemnly  give  yourselves 
away,  in  a covenant  never  to  be  revoked,  to  be  his 
willing  servants  for  ever.” 

I think  then,  the  bond  was  knit  between  us  two, 
which  should  outlast  all  time  and  change.  For  still 
I find  myself  questioning  what  she  would  have  me  do ; 


205 


Shadow  and  Light 

still,  unconsciously,  I say  “we,”  and  “ours.”  And  if  I 
write  on  the  fly  leaf  of  a book,  it  is  often  the  two  names 
together,  as  they  used  to  be.  Only  when  some  sharp 
earthly  wind  smites  me  in  the  face,  then  I cry  out  for 
joy,  that  it  cannot  reach  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 


MORE  LESSONS 

But  while  we  were  thus  learning  to  lay  fast  hold 
on  eternal  life,  the  life  that  now  is  was  changing  for  us 
at  a quicker  and  quicker  rate.  More  and  more  the  girl 
brought  up  in  genial  luxury,  found  in  books,  pictures, 
and  her  piano,  the  only  tokens  of  what  had  been. 
And  even  they  were  to  go;  the  piano,  and  many  of 
the  books  and  pictures. 

I cannot  here  give  precise  dates ; but  during  this  next 
decade  a new  and  larger  trouble  was  looming  up;  de- 
layed, pushed  back,  kept  off  for  a time,  by  my  father’s 
unceasing  efforts,  but  none  the  less  surely  making  its 
way. 

When  he  bought  the  Island,  the  meadows,  and  a large 
tract  on  the  table  land  beyond,  it  was  not  all  for  his 
own  use;  he  meant  to  improve,  cultivate,  and  resell. 
Island  and  meadows  were  all  paid  for,  and  the  farm  in 
part,  with  a small  mortgage  remaining.  By  special 
request  of  the  former  owners  this  mortgage  was  drawn 
so  as  to  cover  the  whole  property.  They  also  agreed  to 
make  partial  release  of  title,  just  so  fast  as  my  father 
could  arrange  resales.  But  this  one  little  clause  of  the 
arrangement  was  only  verbal;  I think  it  never  once 
occurred  to  my  father,  that  men  with  whom  he  was 
on  terms  of  social  intercourse,  could  break  their  word. 

Then  my  uncle,  the  only  witness  to  the  transaction, 
went  abroad  and  died  there ; and  in  those  days,  a man 

206 


More  Lessons 


207 


might,  not  testify  in  his  own  cause.  And  so,  when  my 
father  had  made  a number  of  resales,  and  called  for 
the  promised  partial  release  of  title,  it  was  flatly  refused ; 
the  whole  title  or  none;  which  of  course  meant  the 
whole  mortgage  dues  as  well ; and  the  whole — with  all 
resales  cut  off — my  father  could  not  just  then  pay. 
It  w~as  a time  of  straitness  in  the  land ; and  his  hands 
were  encumbered  with  other  property  besides  that  in 
the  Highlands. 

Then  two  of  my  father’s  oldest  friends  in  New  York 
— those  at  whose  house  he  had  first  met  my  mother — 
stepped  in  between  the  mortgage  and  us ; assumed  the 
debt  and  began  to  pay  it  off ; themselves  to  be  paid  later 
when  resales  could  be  made.  An  unspeakable  relief  to 
my  father. 

No  sales  could  be  made  then  with  business  in  the 
state  it  was ; and  of  course  the  men  with  whom  he  had 
before  agreed  had  now  sought  out  other  building  sites. 

How  much  of  this  was  told  at  home,  unless  to  my 
Aunt  Fanny,  I do  not  know.  Cloud  shadows  I do  re- 
member; but  young  hearts  have  their  own  special 
morning  light ; and  the  new  life  and  joy  upon  which  two 
of  us  had  entered  made  “the  balancings  of  the  clouds’’ 
a less  anxious  study.  There  was  new  work  for  us  too. 
Sunday  school  classes  were  taken  up,  with  other  classes 
in  the  week;  and  my  sister  afterwards  drew  one  of 
our  neighbours  into  a sort  of  tract  visiting.  A very 
fair,  ideal  thing,  to  go  by  that  name.  Our  district  (I 
always  went  with  her,  in  profound  silence)  lay  at  Gar- 
risons; a little  hamlet  called  then  by  some  other 
name ; and  there  was  the  loveliest  pull  down  the  river, 
and  then  the  walk  here  and  there  up  hill  and  down, 
to  the  small  scattered  houses.  The  statelier  abodes  on 
the  hill  were  in  the  other  district. 


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Susan  Warner 


She  had  taken  up  her  journal  again,  and  the  old 
characteristics  came  out,  with  a difference. 

‘ 4 July  nth.  I begin  a new  page  today  appropriately, 
for  I trust  it  is  a new  page  in  my  life  as  well.  It  is  the 
same  book,  but  a new  journal ; and  it  is  the  same  life  of 
which  I write,  but  I verily  hope  devoted  to  new  ends. 
It  is  my  22nd  birthday.  Nearly  twenty-two  years  of 
this  life  of  mine,  blessed  with  uncommonly  great  advan- 
tages, have  been  spent  away  from  God,  and  with  no 
practical  acknowledgment  of  his  goodness.  Hoping 
as  I do,  that  the  future  years  of  my  life  may  bear  very 
little  resemblance  to  the  preceding  ones,  it  is  fitting 
that  on  this  day  I should  seriously  consider  the  ground 
I stand  upon;  and  considering  the  deceitfulness  and 
evasiveness  of  the  heart,  it  is  as  well  perhaps  that  I 
should  do  it  in  writing,  where  I am  somewhat  obliged 
to  be  definite.  And  for  the  purpose  I choose  to  answer 
the  questions  prepared  by  Matthew  Henry,  rather  than 
to  devise  some  for  myself.” 

Three  of  the  questions  follow,  with  her  personal 
answer  to  each ; then  she  goes  on : 

“I  cannot  finish  all  of  Mr.  Henry’s  questions  today. 
But  I wish  to  write,  partly  for  my  future  admonition 
and  remembrance,  that  I have  given  myself  up  to  God, 
and  I am  henceforth  not  my  own,  but  his  who,  I ven- 
ture to  hope,  hath  brought  me  from  darkness  to  light. 
And  inasmuch  as  I can  of  myself  do  nothing,  I humbly 
pray  of  him  whose  grace  can  more  than  supply  all  my 
wants,  to  enable  me  in  all  respects  to  live  as  his  child 
and  to  keep  me  unto  the  end,  for  Christ’s  sake,  Amen!  ” 
11  Dec.  igth.  On  looking  over  the  past  week,  and 
endeavouring  to  scrutinise  my  heart  and  conduct,  I see 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  I have  lived  till  today,  and 
have  still  time  to  amend.  Without  many  great  irreg- 


More  Lessons 


209 


ularities  in  my  outward  conduct,  I fall  greatly  short  of 
the  Gospel  standard : ‘ If  any  man  have  not  the  spirit 

of  Christ  he  is  none  of  his  ’■ — and  how  little  of  that  spirit 
can  I find  in  myself ; how  little  love  to  God  and  man — 
how  little  of  the  self-denial,  meekness,  deadness  to  the 
world,  and  holiness,  of  that  spirit. 

“And  now  I have  a little  time  here,  a few  days,  to  do 
all  that  ever  I can  do  for  myself  or  others  in  this  world ; 
to  prepare  for  that  other  world  to  which  at  the  farthest 
I must  be  near.  Oh  how  doth  it  become  me  to  watch 
and  be  sober,  to  strive  after  holiness,  to  have  my  con- 
versation in  heaven,  and  live  above  the  world,  and  its 
concerns.  Oh  may  I remember  that  ‘ he  that  saith  that 
he  abideth  in  him  ought  himself  also  so  to  walk  even 
as  he  walked  ’ ; and  may  God  give  me  grace  so  to  do  in 
some  measure,  and  so  fill  my  heart  with  his  love  that 
the  love  of  the  world  may  no  longer  have  place  in  it. 
What  manner  of  persons  ought  we  to  be!  Up  and  be 
doing  my  sluggish  soul;  run  the  race  that  now  must 
soon  be  lost  or  won ; slumber  no  longer.  Oh  make  the 
most  of  each  day,  there  will  not  be  one  too  many  for 
the  work  thou  hast  to  do.  Remember! — remember — ! 
‘he  that  shall  come  will  come,  and  will  not  tarry.  ’ ” 

A month  later : 

“I  have  determined,  upon  good  reasons,  to  keep  an 
account  of  each  day’s  doings  in  writing.  I hope  it  may 
help  me  in  the  great  business  of  keeping  my  heart, 
of  which  I feel  the  necessity,  and  may  assist  me  to 
maintain  what  if  I know  myself  I surely  desire,  if  I may 
so  fa/  presume,  a close  walk  with  God.  Since  I have 
given  myself  and  all  I have  to  him,  meet  it  is  that  I 
should  be  watchful  and  wary  in  all  my  doings ; that  I do 
not  offend  him  in  ought,  that  I do  nothing  but  with  a 
single  eye  to  his  glory  and  will,  nothing  but  with  an 


2 IO 


Susan  Warner 


eye  and  a reference  to  him ; that  I glorify  him  in  all  my 
walk  and  conversation,  and  that  I never  wander  for  a 
moment  from  the  Fountain  of  living  waters,  to  content 
myself  with  the  broken  cisterns  of  this  world,  which  I 
am  so  prone  to  want  to  do.  I must  watch — yet  I can- 
not keep  myself.  Oh  hold  up  my  goings  in  thy  paths, 
that  my  footsteps  slip  not.” 

Old  fashioned  standards  these,  telling  of  unclipped 
faith.  But  about  that  word  ‘ ‘ prone  ’ ’ which  she  uses ; — 
the  day  went  by  when  it  was  true  for  her.  Later  in 
life,  when  people  around  her  were  singing  ‘ ‘ Come  thou 
Fount  of  every  blessing”;  giving  with  much  seeming 
zest  the  first  two  lines  of  the  last  four ; as  if  that  was  the 
proper  way  to  feel ; her  voice  always  ceased,  and  she  was 
quietly  silent  until  those  two  lines  were  sung.  ‘ ‘ Prone 
to  wander”  she  could  no  longer  say  with  truth.  It 
should  have  been,  rather, — “Whom  have  I in  heaven 
but  Thee.” 

And  in  even  her  early  Christian  life,  she  took  no 
lower  aim.  “Oh  help  me,  Thou  who  canst, — that  I 
may  be  indeed  holy  and  wholly  thine  in  every  thought, 
work,  and  word,  and  indeed  glorify  Thee  to  the  utmost 
of  my  ability.  Change  this  heart  that  it  may  live  to 
Thee  only,  and  be  my  portion  forever,  and  may  I be 
most  humbly  and  steadfastly  devoted  to  Thee  through 
all  time  and  eternity,  Amen.” 

“Very  much  under  the  weather  this  day  or  twro  with 
my  cold  and  the  effects  of  medicine,  but  better  today. 
Sickness  is  salutary,  for  it  makes  me  sober,  and  one 
cannot  be  that — too  much:  sober-minded  I mean.  I 
think  it  is  possible  to  be  too  sober-faced.  I find  a sad 
deficiency  in  spirituality.  Yet  I am  not  satisfied  to 
take  ‘the  middle  walk  of  Christianity.’  Then  let  me 
not  sleep,  but  watch  and  be  sober ; and  in  especial  mind 


More  Lessons 


21 1 


these  two  things:  ist.  to  live  more  on  the  Bible.  2nd. 
To  rest  short  of  nothing  less  than  the  sense  that  God 
is  my  Father,  and  that  I am  his  child,  living  in  an 
humble  and  child-like  waiting  upon  him.  ‘Open 
thou  mine  eyes:  that  I may  behold  wondrous  things 
out  of  thy  law,’  and  ‘Oh  hold  thou  me  up,  and  I shall 
be  safe.’ 

“How  often  when  I pray  I have  no  clear  apprehen- 
sion of  him  I am  addressing.  It  must  be  my  own 
fault ; sometimes  a wTorldly  or  a divided  heart  I fear  is 
the  reason.  O Lord  cure  me  of  this  malady.  Could  I 
but  with  Stephen,  see  always  the  Son  of  man  standing 
on  the  right-hand  of  God,  how  differently  should  I 
live. 

“I  know,  that  were  it  not  for  one  stronger  than  I am, 
I should  wander,  no  more  to  return ; my  strength  is  not 
in  me.” 

We  spent  the  next  winter  at  the  Island,  but  living 
not  at  all  like  hibernated  bees : my  father  much  of  the 
time  in  town. 

“Jan.  17th.  My  dear  Father. 

“I  would  fain  add  a word  to  Anna’s  short  epistle, 
but  what  shall  I tell  you?  News  are  scarce  here,  and 
yet  news  are  not  always  the  things  one  wishes  to  hear. 
Imagine  us  then  this  morning  just  after  the  old  fashion, 
busy,  quiet,  cosy,  with  the  sun  shining  as  brightly  with- 
out as  if  it  was  April.  Was  ever  such  weather  in  the 
middle  of  January.  Believe  me,  the  sun  shines  within 
too,  upon  one  of  us  at  least ; and  when  that  is  the  case, 
you  know  the  brightness  within  and  without  tend  to 
enhance  each  other. 

‘ ‘ I am  glad  you  had  such  a prosperous  journey ; and  I 
hope  you  may  ere  long  have  a better  one  back.  Our 


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school  gets  on  prosperously,  as  Anna  has  informed  you. 
Only  J.  came  Sunday  morning;  perhaps  N.  was  afraid. 
According  to  Aunt  Fanny’s  advice  however,  I just  let 
him  read  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  and  did  not  say 
anything  to  alarm  him.  Aunt  Fanny  has  also  put  it 
into  my  head  to  teach  the  girls  sewing,  and  I mean  they 
shall  work  neither  for  themselves  nor  yet  for  me, 
but  for  our  Missionary  box.  So  I should  like,  if  it  be 
perfectly  convenient  (not  else)  the  said  piece  of  cotton 
shirting,  as  that  would  furnish  different  kinds  of  work, 
overhand,  hemming,  etc.  If  also  you  should  meet 
with  some  very  coarse  paper  at  auction,  for  a trifle,  it 
would  do  much  better  than  better  paper  for  writing. 
I have  n’t  time  to  say  more. 

“Pray  keep  a good  heart  about  money  affairs.  I do, 
but  to  be  sure  it  is  easy  for  me.  Never  mind  how  they 
go,  so  we  do  our  part.  I don’t  think  it  matters  much 
really. 

“Yours  affectionately, 

“Susan.” 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time,  I think — cer- 
tainly very  early  in  her  religious  life — a subtle  tempta- 
tion laid  hold  of  her.  The  notion  that  the  reverse  of 
wrong  must  be  right.  Displeasing  oneself,  of  necessity 
wholesome ; and  the  antipodes  to  comfort,  a safe  place. 
That  touch  of  asceticism  which  has  turned  so  many 
heads.  And  it  shews  how  eagerly  she  was  handling 
her  ease -loving  self,  when  she  writes: 

“I  am  bothered  about  eating  or  not  eating.”  How 
much  and  of  what  sorts,  should  she  allow  herself.  And 
for  a time,  Aunt  Fanny’s  entreaties  and  worryings 
were  of  no  avail.  She  “kept  under  the  body,”  in  the 
way  Paul  did  not  mean;  fasted,  denied  herself;  until 


More  Lessons 


213 


she  became  very  seriously  out  of  health.  The  delusion 
was  short-lived,  but  not  so  its  effects ; and  she  was  sent 
away  from  home  for  change  and  cure. 

11  Sept.  iyth.  My  dearest  Aunty. 

“I  feel  I must  write  to  you  this  afternoon,  though  I 
have  enough  else  to  do.  Somehow  or  other  I manage 
to  have  very  little  time  indeed,  instead  of  a great  deal. 
We  have  breakfast  late, — that  is  one  reason;  when  one 
gets  up  from  the  breakfast-table  at  half  past  eight,  a 
good  part  of  the  morning  is  gone.  We  are  not  always 
quite  so  late  as  that ; but  afterwards  I have  my  bed  to 
make  and  room  to  dust,  and  perhaps  something  to  do 
for  Aunt  Nancy,  and  myself;  and  walking  takes  up 
time ; and  so  what  with  one  thing  and  another  my  days 
pass  and  very  little  work  is  accomplished,  and  I have 
but  very  little  time  either  for  amusement.  You  will 
judge  so  when  I tell  you  that  I have  not  sewed  my  mis- 
sionary hour  one  day  this  week  that  I know  of.  Yester- 
day and  one  other  day  I went  out  twice  to  walk ; three 
times  before  today  I have  made  bread;  and  today  I 
have  swept  and  dusted  my  room,  made  bread  and  pies, 
and  perhaps  I may  go  to  walk  after  this  letter  is  finished ; 
if  I do  not  it  will  be  because  I am  too  tired.  You  see 
my  dear  Aunty  I have  grown  stronger;  Aunt  Nancy 
says  that  I look  better  than  I did  when  I came.  Do 
you  think  I shall  not  be  soon  fit  to  resume  my  place  and 
my  share  of  labours  among  you?  I take  the  medicine 
Aunt  Nancy  has  prepared  for  me,  and  I use  my  hair 
mitten  regularly,  but  I have  gone  back  to  milk  and 
water.  Am  I wrong  do  you  think  ? . . . 

“But  what  can  I tell  you?  With  what  warm  affec- 
tion I bear  you  all  on  my  heart  I need  not  tell  you. 
And  so  you  I doubt  not  remember  me;  and  to  love  and 


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be  loved  is  one  of  the  best  blessings  of  life,  that  nothing 
but  death  can  take  from  us.  But  O let  us  be  provided 
with  something  better  against  that  day  that  must  come. 

“Don’t  think  me  melancholy;  I almost  never  am  for 
any  length  of  time.  And  this  thought  need  not  make 
us  so.  It  would  if  there  were  nothing  better,  but,  let 
us  never  cease  to  be  thankful  there  is,  and  within  our 
reach  too. 

“I  can  imagine  you  all  tomorrow  at  your  cheerful 
Sunday  morning  breakfast,  and  happy  five  o’clock 
supper.  Such  suppers  and  breakfasts  are  not  known 
in  this  house. 

“ Dearest  Aunty,  father,  Anna,  good-bye — good-night. 

“Your  affectionate  Susan.” 

The  “missionary  hour”  of  which  she  speaks,  came 
thus.  We  agreed,  all  of  us,  to  sew  one  hour  each  day 
for  mission  boxes.  This  was  afterwards  changed  to 
all  we  could  sew  every  Thursday. 

In  the  fall  of  1843,  the  journal  gives  quite  a full 
account  of  the  weekly  tract  distribution;  and  one 
could  smile,  and  sigh  too,  over  details  that  are  so  like 
what  takes  place  today.  People  say  we  need  “a 
new  gospel,”  “new  methods” — better  “suited  to  the 
times”;  and  behold  the  times  are  identical,  and  the 
human  hearts  the  same,  in  all  that  the  “good  news” 
was  meant  to  reach.  “The  thing  that  hath  been,  it  is 
that  which  shall  be.” 

‘ ‘ Sept.  1 2th.  Today  began  my  Tract  visiting.  I had 

arranged  with  Miss that  she  should  take  the  hilltop 

and  we  the  hillside.  So  this  afternoon  we  set  out. 
We  had  very  fine  weather.  Anna  and  I rowed,  (with 
John)  and  we  took  George  to  walk  with  us.  I had  some- 
what dreaded  the  business,  and  been  exceeding  willing 


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215 


to  put  it  off  from  day  to  day,  but  all  was  made  easy ; — 
how  needless  and  wrong  to  fear  when  I have  such  help 
to  depend  on.  Let  me  remember  that  there  is  nothing 
I cannot  do  or  bear  with  God’s  help,  and  trusting  in 
him  let  ‘ Nothing  venture  nothing  have’  be  my  motto. 

“ We  went  first  to  the  lower  dock,  and  proceeded  to 
the  only  inhabited  house  on  the  landing.  The  name  is 

B . The  mistress  of  the  house  came  up  to  see  us 

from  making  pies,  with  her  hands  in  flour.  She  is 
not  religious,  nor  any  of  her  children — her  husband  is 
a member  of  the  church.  She  thought  that  people 
sometimes  make  a profession  of^  religion  and  are  not  a 
bit  better  than  their  neighbours — to  which  I assented ; 
but  reminded  her  that  would  not  excuse  us.  I talked 
a little  to  her  and  to  a daughter  who  made  her  appear- 
ance— left  the  tract  and  came  away. 

“The  next  place  was  L.  H’s,  a few  steps  up  the  hill,  a 
poor  family.  The  father  and  mother  both  ostensible 
Christians — several  not  ill-looking  children.  The  chil- 
dren go  to  S.  School,  and  they  have  regular  family 
prayer.  Rather  a nice  sort  of  body  and  talked  away 

glibly  enough.  Next  to  Mrs.  B n’s,  where  we  sat  a 

long  time — she  talked  so  much  before  I felt  as  if  I had 
said  all  I wished  to  say.  She  is  quite  a liberal  thinker,- — 
if  one  lives  up  to  one’s  religion,  it  will  do, — but  seemed 
to  agree  that  if  the  true  religion  is  accessible  one  is 
not  justified  in  taking  up  with  something  else.  . . . 

“I  told  her  God’s  requirements  were  not  ‘liberal, 
but  strict — mentioned  the  command  ‘Thou  shalt  love 
the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart.’  . . . She 
received  my  words  and  tract  kindly.  I prayed  with 
her,  and  we  came  away.  Old  Mrs.  H’s  was  the  next. 
She  is  a member  of  the  church.  She  was  ‘ obliged  to 
us’  and  asked  when  we  would  come  again. 


2l6 


Susan  Warner 


“Then  we  came  to  the  first  landing,  where  are  2 houses. 
In  one  of  them  we  found  a young  woman  with  a very 
young  baby — name  L.  She  was  not  religious,  but 
promised  me  to  read  the  tract.  Her  back  was  towards 
me  much  of  the  time,  I don’t  know  whether  she  was 
laughing  at  my  words  or  listening  to  them.  At  Mrs. 
N’s  we  found  a nice  sort  of  woman  with  several  chil- 
dren. The  mother  not  a member  of  any  church — 
children  go  to  S.  S.  On  the  piazza  I saw  a young 
woman  who  lives,  as  she  told  me,  3 miles  back  in  the 
country — none  of  the  family  religious.  I gave  her  a 
tract.  She  began  to  laugh  when  I began  to  talk  to  her. 
Gave  a couple  to  a man  standing  at  the  door  of  the  store, 
and  that  finished  the  day’s  work.  We  rowed  home 
with  lighter  hearts  than  we  rowed  down  with.  Gave 
the  same  tract  all  round  this  time — don’t  think  I 
shall  do  so  again.  It  was  that  4 Dialogue  between  the 
Bible  and  a sinner.’  I gave  with  it  the  Swearer’s 
Pra}'er  to  the  men  at  the  store.” 

So  she  went  and  came,  winning  her  way  for  her  mes- 
sage, as  well  as  for  her  own  dear  self.  At  the  next 
visit  to  Mrs.  B’s:  “She  sat  soberly  attending  to  me — 
said  she  liked  to  hear  me  talk,  and  twice  invited  me  to 
call  again.”  At  the  next:  “I  had  quite  an  interesting 
visit — at  least  I was  led  to  give  my  testimony  to  the 
excellency  of  religion  in  a way  that  as  it  was  with  some 
expression  of  feeling  on  my  part,  so  I think  it  may  have 
elicited  some  in  theirs.  Gave  the  4 Dairyman’s  Daugh- 
ter.’ Saw  the  mother  and  the  daughter  down  in 
the  kitchen.  The  mother  4 thanked  me  a thousand 
times,’  or  something  like  that  expression, — said  she 
should  never  forget  me ; would  be  glad  if  I would  come 
and  spend  the  afternoon  with  them.” 

“Mrs.  B n.  wanted  to  purchase  of  me  the  Bax- 


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217 


ter’s  Call  I had  left  with  her,  with  which  she  professed 
herself  well  pleased ; but  I fear  it  is  mostly  as  a literary 
production;  how  else  can  a Universalist  like  it,  without 
ceasing  to  be  one  ? Recommended  to  her  the  Bible; 
left  the  Dairyman’s  Daughter.” 

Thus  her  Island  life  went  on;  so  peaceful,  so  eager,  so 
busy, — so  shorn  of  almost  everything  girls  are  supposed 
to  want.  But  you  can  see  there  is  no  chill  in  the 
atmosphere.  No  neglect  of  the  outside  world,  what 
though  our  part  of  it  seemed  to  have  much  forgotten  us. 
S.  School  classes,  teaching  among  our  own  work  people, 
kept  us  wide  awake;  and  the  delightful  Bible  study 
after  a royal  plan  which  my  father  had  thought  out  for 
us,  was  slowly  fitting  us  for  our  future  work,  as  perhaps 
nothing  else  could  have  done. 

After  that  year,  for  many,  we  were  always  in  town 
for  the  winter;  trying  boarding,  at  first;  and  then,  in 
desperation,  declaring  that  we  “would  rather  live  in 
the  corner  of  a garret,  with  a saucepan  and  teakettle,” 
than  so, — we  always  took  rooms  where  and  as  we  could 
find  and  afford  them,  and  kept  house,  somehow.  Kept 
our  family  life,  our  time,  and  our  identity. 

There  was  but  little  journal  writing  there;  only  some- 
times long  abstracts  of  Dr.  Skinner’s  sermons  and  lec- 
tures, and  her  own  comments  thereon.  Church  meetings 
were  very  refreshing  after  the  scantier,  dryer  fare  in 
the  Highlands.  They  were  many  too,  in  those  days. 
Sunday,  Bible  classes  and  S.  School  at  9 a.  m.  Preach- 
ing at  10.30.  At  2 o’clock  S.  School,  with  a special 
Bible  class  for  “domestics,”  and  mission  schools  in  the 
distance.  Preaching  at  3 o’clock;  and  at  7.  a prayer- 
meeting in  the  lecture-room; — so  full,  sometimes,  that 
benches  were  brought  into  the  aisles.  Then  in  the 
week,  Tuesday  night  prayer-meeting,  Thursday  night 


2l8 


Susan  Warner 


lecture;  and  the  first  Monday  evening  in  each  month, 
the  concert  of  prayer  for  the  conversion  of  the  world. 
It  sounds  busy, — but  I question  if  nervous  prostration 
ever  came  in  so.  We  never  thought  of  accepting  any 
other  invitation  on  Church  nights ; and  apart  from  the 
duty,  the  going  was  always  a joy.  In  the  starlit  even- 
ings, with  very  mild  assistance  from  the  old  oil  street 
lamps ; or  with  shawl-muffled  heads  in  a fast  falling 
winter  snow.  Who  minded  weather  in  those  pre- 

athletic  days?  One  burst  of  song  as  you  came  into 

the  bright  lecture  room — 

Hail  to  the  Lord’s  Anointed 

and  the  snow  was  forgotten.  Often,  as  I said,  my  sis- 
ter wrote  down  at  home  some  abstract  of  the  talk  or 
preaching;  and  perhaps  one  extract  may  be  permitted 
here.  Blue  Presbyterianism  is  so  little  understood  by 
the  rest  of  the  world.  This  was  at  the  Sunday  evening 
prayer  meeting. 

“ Dr.  Skinner  went  on  to  speak  delightfully,  and  was 
himself  a beautiful  exhibition,  so  we  thought.  I never 
saw  such  a countenance.  There  was  the  very  heart 
shining  out  at  the  face.  He  spoke  of  the  two  aspects 
under  which  religion  is  presented — on  the  one  hand  a 
struggle,  a race,  requiring  self-denial  and  the  most  ardu- 
ous exertions — and  he  told  those  he  addressed  that  un- 
less they  had  this  sort  of  religion  they  were  not  in  the 
way  to  heaven ; on  the  other  hand  it  is  represented  as 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world;  1 only  believe;'  exercise 
a simple  act  of  confidence,  which  is  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest things  to  do.  Then  he  shewed  how  these  two 
views  of  religion  harmonise — how  the  faith  and  love 
of  Christ  make  it  delightful  to  use  self-denial  and  do 
everything  else  which  in  itself  may  be  difficult  and  pain- 


More  Lessons 


219 


ful.  But  when  he  entered  upon  this  part  of  his 
subject,  how  he  smiled!  I never  saw  the  like  but  in 
himself, — it  was  perfectly  infectious,  the  sunny  gladness 
of  that  smile  overspreading  his  whole  face.  It  was 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  refuse  an  answering  smile; 
and  I hid  my  face  at  last  behind  some  one  for  fear  I 
should  be  observed ; but  after  I had  done  so  my  laugh- 
ing turned  to  weeping.  It  is  much  my  custom  when 
the  blessing  is  pronounced  to  lift  up  my  heart  in  prayer 
for  him  who  pronounces  it.” 

But  it  never  was  heard  that  even  such  a pastor 
had  a whole  congregation  just  like  himself;  and  with 
some  of  the  varieties  my  sister  and  I had  much  to  do 
those  winters.  Eager  to  be  in  good  works,  if  we  only 
knew  how ; presenting  ourselves  at  sewing  societies  and 
such  like ; we  were  picked  out  to  serve  as  collectors  for 
missions  and  other  things — I forget  just  what.  And 
then,  as  we  were  (the  ladies  remarked)  “ good  walkers,” 
the  longest,  furthest  off  list  was  always  given  to  us. 
No  trolleys  in  those  days,  nor  horsecars, — nor  spare 
money  in  our  purse  had  there  been;  and  most  of  the 
dear  ladies  who  made  the  lists,  kept  a carriage.  But 
“holiness  on  the  bells  of  the  horses”  was  not  written 
plain  enough,  to  let  us  have  a lift  now  and  then.  We 
were  good  walkers,  and  did  not  mind.  What  did  try 
us  (and  there  the  carriage  might  have  helped)  was  the 
social  standing  of  a collector  for  missions;  in  the  houses 
of  some  of  those  who  figured  on  the  list,  we  were  under 
ban.  The  servants  bade  us  wait  in  the  hall ; the  mistress 
scanned  us  and  questioned  us.  There  was  the  Col- 
lector’s book  indeed,  with  her  own  dues  written  down 
by  her  own  hand;  but  still — young  women  so  plainly 
and  unfashionably  dressed!  For  we  were  very  poor 
just  then,  and  shut  off  from  most  things;  and  I know  it 


220 


Susan  Warner 


had  been  very  pleasant  to  think  of  even  five  minutes 
in  certain  houses,  and  of  even  a greeting  from  some 
people. 

If  it  also  tried  us  that  in  places  where  there  seemed  to 
be  so  much,  so  much! — the  poor  Collector’s  book  re- 
ceived so  little ; that  anomaly  belongs  to  all  ages : 

“ Lo,  I dwell  in  a house  of  cedars;  but  the  Ark  of  the 
Covenant  of  the  Lord  under  curtains.” 

But  we  had  seen  the  world  just  a little,  and  the 
unevenness  struck  us.  I think  we  always  came  home 
rather  toned  down  with  it  all.  How  we  were  allowed  to 
do  a worse  thing,  I can  never  understand.  At  some 
meeting  the  matter  of  tract  visiting  came  up ; with  talk 
of  a certain  locality  where  no  one  wished  to  go.  I re- 
membered afterwards  how  one  (not  young)  woman 
shrank  back  from  it  with  horror;  and  how  another, 
sotto  voce,  said:  “Well  if  they  are  willing  to  go ” 

We  had  not  come  there  to  refuse  anything;  and  were 
besides  in  happy  ignorance  of  the  big  city’s  byways ; so 
we  went ; my  sister,  and  I for  her  shadow. 

There  was  one  particular  dark  long  passage — a gap  in 
the  line  of  wall — through  which  we  passed  from  the 
open  street  to  a poor  little  dwelling  in  an  inner  court. 
There  lived  an  old  coloured  woman  to  whom  my  sister 
read  and  talked. 

Sometimes  all  was  quiet  enough ; but  I remember  well 
one  day  when  a posse  of  wild  men  came  racketing  up 
on  the  low  porch ; quarrelling,  swearing,  shouting ; and 
the  kind  old  woman — my  sister  reading  on  the  while 
— rose  up  and 'silently  placed  herself  between  the  door 
and  us. 

I am  glad  we  went:  maybe  the  Lord  had  a message 
for  that  poor  heart  which  no  one  could  give  so  well  as  my 
darling.  And  I am  quite  sure  the  “other  host”  were 


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221 


all  about  her.  Yet  I shiver  sometimes,  remembering 
the  long  dark  passage  and  those  voices. 

The  following  July  she  tells  of  a new  consecration 
of  herself. 

“I  wish  to  note  that  I give  myself  today  to  my 
Saviour  to  ‘ follow  him  fully.'  May  he  enable  me! 
I am  a poor  thing  indeed.  But  he  will  enable  me.  He 
has  given  me  abundant  cause  to  love  and  trust  him, 
and  of  late,  and  ever  since  I came  home,  his  goodness 
toward  me  has  been  very  great.  May  I dwell  in 
the  house  of  the  Lord  forever.  May  I bring  forth  much 
fruit  to  his  glory  while  I live — I do  wish  that.” 

Later  on  in  the  same  summer : 

“Made  again  my  tract  visits.  Had  felt  some  re- 
pugnance before  setting  about  it,  but  I have  been  abun- 
dantly satisfied  that  I am  not  out  of  the  path  of  duty  in 
the  matter.  Anna  and  Fanny  both  went  with  me  but 
not  into  any  house.  They  sat  out  on  the  bank,  Anna 
with  her  crochet  work,  waiting  for  me.  David  was 
our  escort.” 

After  some  of  the  other  calls — “Then  to  Mrs.  B s. 

She  has  not  been  well — has  sunk  much  in  two  years. 
Sat  talking  a good  while  before  I entered  upon  the  sub- 
ject that  brought  me — at  last  began  to  ask  her  if  she 
had  followed  my  entreaty  (made  last  fall)  to  read  the 
Bible.  She  told  me  yes — and  said  she  had  changed  her 
old  way  of  thinking — had  given  up  her  former  opinion 
(as  to  universal  salvation)  and  her  eyes  reddened  more 
than  once  or  perhaps  twice,  during  my  stay.  What  was 
my  gladness!  I spoke  of  a change  of  heart — she  said 
she  did  n’t  go  as  far  as  that,  but  made  some  reference  I 
don’t  know  exactly  how,  to  divine  assistance,  to  which 
I encouraged  her  to  look,  speaking  strongly  of  the 
sweetness  of  the  divine  promises.  I think  I ‘hoped 


222 


Susan  Warner 


she  would  not  cease  till  she  had  attained  the  change  of 
heart,  or  assurance  of  salvation.’  I don’t  know  pre- 
cisely what  terms  I used,  but  I believe  she  gave  me 
some  assurance  that  she  should  not — and  I don’t  know 
that  she  did  not  make  some  reference  to  her  not  being 
a person  to  give  up  what  she  had  undertaken.  A most 
gratifying  interview.  What  a change  already  in  this 
woman ! and  how  can  I be  humble  enough  and 
thankful  enough.  ‘Sing  praises  to  our  King,  sing 
praises,  ’ may  wTell  be  in  my  mouth.  And  now,  oh  how 
I long  for  her  that  she  may  be  brought  into  the  full 
light  and  hope  of  the  blessed  gospel ! — how  earnestly  I 
desire  and  pray  that  the  Lord  may  perfect  his  work  in 
her!  for  how  can  it  be  other  than  his  work  which  has 
brought  her  to  confess,  and  that  with  indications  of 
feeling,  that  she  has  relinquished  her  old  belief?  And 
now,  oh!  for  a perfecting  of  this  work!  I will  pray  and 
I will  hope  too,  and  surely  I have  reason.  She  said  she 
thought  I would  be  pleased  to  hear  it.” 

Few  letters  date  back  to  just  those  years ; and  but 
few  of  any  date  can  be  given  here  for  lack  of  space ; but 
to  me  her  letters  are  refreshing  things.  There  is  such 
well-bred  composure  about  them,  and  the  mere  absence 
of  slang  is  delightful.  Nothing  is  “ awful” ; hardly  any- 
thing “sweet”  except  roses-  nothing  “dear”  but  the 
loved  ones'  at  home.  No  one  is  “ perfectly  convulsed” 
with  merriment,  or  “absolutely  in  despair”  over  a rib- 
band that  does  not  match.  There  is  a good  and  varied 
vocabulary,  and  time  to  choose  from  it.  But  give 
half  the  women  (and  men)  of  the  present  day  a few 
stock  phrases  and  the  latest  slang,  and  they  have  no 
use  for  the  rest  of  the  English  language.  The  cool  quiet 
of  these  pages  of  long  ago  is  very  restful ; and  it  comes 
to  one  with  a glad  surprise,  that  our  mother  tongue  is 


More  Lessons 


223 


after  all,  no  poverty-stricken  thing,  but  has  a wealth 
of  varied,  wholesome,  simple  words.  It  is  like  coming 
out  of  a cupboard  into  space. 

The  ink  has  faded,  but  not  enough  to  hide  the  clear, 
even  beauty  of  the  writing;  from  date  to  signature  it  is 
as  legible  as  print.  The  paper  is  the  old-fashioned 
“letter”  size,  folded  in  upon  itself,  with  no  envelopes. 
This  first  one  was  to  me  in  town,  where  I was  preparing 
for  a first  real  fly-away  from  home. 

“Write  you  when  we  are  coming!  Truly  my  little 
sister,  I think  not  till  you  are  gone  to  Boston.  How 
coolly  you  ask  it, — ‘write  you  when.’  Certainly  dis- 
tance has  in  this  instance  lent  its  usual  ‘enchanting' 
effect  to  the  view. 

“ How  must  have  dwindled  to  your  mind’s  vision  that 
enormous  mountain  of  ‘ things  to  be  done,’  which  yet  to 
our  nearer  apprehension  has  lost  so  little  of  its  altitude 
and  ‘ ponderosity .’  What  do  you  think  has  become  or 
will  become  of  the  endless  shirts,  petticoats,  nightcaps, 
handkerchiefs,  gowns, — nightgowns,  ‘nubes,’  collars, 
caps,  chokers,  ‘insiders,’  undersleeves,  and  I know 
not  what  besides?  They  cannot  be  conjured  out  of  the 
way,  you  know ; it  must  be  by  very  patient  and  ant-like 
labour  that  they  shall  be  removed  from  our  path; 
stitch — stitch — stitch;  seam  and  gusset  and  band — 
band  and  gusset  and  seam;  oh  don’t  speak  of  it;  but 
the  pendulum  has  always  a second  to  wag  in,  that ’s  one 
comfort.  When  these  obstacles  are  sufficiently  cleared 
away,  don’t  you  think  we  will  run  to  New  York?  with 
my  hearty  good  will  I assure  you.  Aunty  has  just 
directed  me  to  tell  you  that  she  don’t  quite  eat  me  up — 
which  message  has  occasioned  some  merriment  between 
us — I not  having  perceived  any  very  alarming  indica- 
tions of  danger  in  that  quarter. 


224 


Susan  Warner 


“Ido  not  doubt  you  would  like  to  know  how  we  do 
without  you.  I will  not  conceal  from  you,  that  I think 
the  face  of  things  in  no  wise  improved  by  the  want  of 
your  little  person  flitting  to  and  fro;  and  as  for  Aunt 
Fanny,  poor  soul!  after  suffering  from  a certain  degree 
of  cold  for  one  or  two  nights  she  has  been  fain  to  make 
herself  happy  in  a feather  bed.  But  do  not  be  melan- 
choly on  this  account  or  think  we  are.  Ask  Aunty,  and 
she  will  tell  you  that  I laughed  in  the  very  act  of  shak- 
ing my  handkerchief  at  the  departing  steamboat  which 
carried  you  away,  and  that  I made  myself  marvellously 
and  unprecedently  agreeable  at  supper.  I began  ‘ Es- 
ther’ to  Aunt  Fanny  last  night  and  like  it  well.  It  is 
very  cleverly  and  amusingly  written.  Father  went 
to  Poughkeepsie  yesterday ; so  we  are  quietly  trying  to 
work  away  a little  of  that  mountain  of  which  I have 
spoken,  and  I at  least  have  good  hopes  of  seeing  it 
greatly  diminished  by  and  by.  If  possible,  and  I trust 
it  will  be  possible,  it  is  much  my  wish  to  go  (both  of  us) 
to  make  a bit  of  a visit  at  Mrs.  Skinner’s  before  we  es- 
tablish ourselves  at  lodgings ; but  it  cannot  be  till  we 
pack  you  off  to  the  East.  It  will  be  best,  we  think,  for 
you  to  return  home  at  the  end  of  the  week  as  wTas  pro- 
posed. Pleasant  as  it  would  be  to  gratify  Mary’s  kind 
wish  of  having  us  all  together  at  her  mother’s  house,  it 
can’t  be  done,  as  you  know  if  you  will  take  the  trouble 
to  think;  but  I am  aware  it  is  sometimes  the  effect  of 
change  of  scene  and  giddy  society,  to  dissipate  the 
sober  and  reasonable  views  of  things  people  have  enter- 
tained at  home. 

“Now  for  business.  You  will  want  linings,  and  Aunt 
Fanny  will  send  some;  but  not  till  father  goes.  You 
might  write  again  and  let  us  know  whether  new  stuff  is 
needed,  or  if  calico  frocks  are  sufficient.  Aunty  has 


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225 


both.  She  will  send  at  any  rate  by  father,  whether  we 
hear  from  you  or  not.  I have  no  expectation  that 
any  very  surprising  amount  of  work  will  be  accom- 
plished by  you,  in  the  midst  of  all  your  talking  and  run- 
ning about,  and  indeed  I wish  above  all  things  that  you 
should  enjoy  yourself;  but  lest  by  any  possibility  you 
should  do  anything  to  the  shirt-bosoms  I will  give  you 
one  or  two  directions.  Make  the  under  half  of  the 
bosom  with  a plain  hem,  of  the  breadth  of  the  plaits  of 
course.  As  we  have  concluded  to  make  them  for  studs , 
not  buttons,  the  edge  of  said  bosom  need  not  be 
three-fold.  And  in  the  first  plait  of  the  ‘Upper  half  let 
the  seam  come  directly  in  the  middle  of  the  plait  when 
folded, — contrary  to  what  I once  told  you.  I find  it 
convenient  to  make  the  buttonhole  in  the  same. 
This  thought  is  finished,  as  say  the  Sandwich  Island 
boys. 

“Aunty  says  don’t  touch  your  collar  till  your  neces- 
sary things  are  done. 

“This  also:  Get  if  you  can  4 of  the  knit  nightcaps, 
large  and  thick. 

“This  also.  Do  not  tire  yourself  with  walking. 

“ From  your  very  true  Maypole  friend. 

“I  will  write  to  Mary  another  time — I cannot  now. 
Love  to  all  and  remember  me  to  Mrs.  Elliott.” 


15 


CHAPTER  XIII 


AT  HOME  AND  AWAY 

It  gives  a true  enough  glimpse  of  our  life  just  then. 
Work  of  many  sorts — by  the  big  handful,  met  and 
turned  off  with  ready  zeal;  books  chinked  in  here  and 
there;  fun  always  ready;  love  transfusing  (and  trans- 
forming) all.  Privations  not  talked  about,  wishes  in 
check;  what  we  had,  tasted  and  used  to  the  full. 
Somehow  as  I look  back,  I cannot  seem  to  remember 
that  we  ever  missed  or  discounted  the  simple,  sweet 
things  in  each  day’s  portion.  We  went  where  we  were 
asked,  and  wore  what  we  had;  I never  remember  our 
refusing  an  invitation  because  we  had  not  the  correct 
thing  to  put  on;  nor  having  our  pleasure  in  the  least 
bit  shadowed  by  that  fact.  And  so,  in  a quiet  way,  at 
this  time,  we  went  out  a great  deal.  Our  rooms  that 
winter  were  very  near  the  house  of  Mrs.  David  Codwise 
who  wanted  us  whenever  she  could  get  us;  and  other 
friends  seemed  of  the  same  mind;  so  that  (with 
church  nights)  we  were  but  few  evenings  at  home. 
Sometimes  we  all  went  together;  but  to  Mrs.  Codwise 
more  often,  we  two  alone.  For  I always  went  there, 
though  it  was  a grown-up  set  of  young  people,  my  sis- 
ter’s peers. — Charlotte  Livingston  and  her  brother, 
Harriet  Schuyler,  Mr.  May  and  his  two  sisters,  Mr. 
Mitchell,  Miss  Mitchell,  Miss  Elizabeth  Kane — these 
were  some  of  the  regulars,  with  many  occasionals  from 
time  to  time.  We  had  music,  talk,  sometimes  games, 


226 


At  Home  and  Away  227 

of  which  Mrs.  Cod  wise  was  very  fond.  Old-fashioned 
games — “Twenty  questions,”  “What’s  my  thought 
like?”  and  so  on;  and  some  of  my  sister’s  answers 
were  treasured  and  told,  as  especially  brilliant. 

Oysters,  jelly,  perhaps  ice-cream,  took  their  turn; 
and  then  I would  hear  Mrs.  Codwise  say:  “There  is  Mr. 
Warner” — and  look  up  to  see  my  dear  father  greeting 
her  and  the  rest  with  his  old-time  chivalry  of  manner. 
He  had  come  to  guard  us  home;  something  he  never 
turned  over  to  anyone  else. 

My  sister’s  letters  written  to  me  later  from  town, 
when  I was  in  Boston,  are  very  like  her,  but  I can  give 
only  a bit  here  and  there. 

“ New  York.  Monday  was  a nice  day.  The  remain- 
ing goods  and  chattels  were  sent  off ; father  came  up  but 
had  to  go  down  again  before  two  o’clock,  and  did  not 
return  to  dinner.  Aunty  and  I went  out  to  get  some- 
thing for  the  servants,  and  succeeded  in  getting  a pretty 
blue  muslin  for  2 shillings  a yard  for  Hannah,  and  a 
showy  worked  collar  for  Sarah.  Then  we  went  to  Mrs. 
Skinner’s.  Then  we  went  round  by  Fourth  St.  to 
Brown’s  (first  ordering  a carriage  at  Burke’s)  and  there 
we  bought  certain  breads,  cakes,  and  biscuits,  for  the 
comfort  and  delectation  of  Aunty  and  father  in  their 
solitude.  We  had — or  I had — directed  lunch  to  be 
ready  at  half  past  twro.  We  had  time  to  take  down 
Mrs.  Skinner’s  bedsteads.  Then  came  our  dinner  of  tea, 
bread  and  butter  and  eggs,  and  the  carriage  and  bread 
came  before  I had  done  with  the  dinner.  I saw  Aunty 
off.  What  would  you  have  done  then?  Shed  tears 
at  the  thought  of  your  lonely  condition,  or  sympathised 
sorrowfully  with  Aunty  and  father  in  their  prospect  of 
the  journey?  I did  nothing  so  sentimental;  but  set 
myself  very  seriously  to  the  finishing  of  my  eggs  and 


228 


Susan  Warner 


bread  and  butter,  the  former  of  which  I finished  liter- 
ally. I let  Hannah  clear  off  the  table,  and  then  for 
some  time  I stayed  alone  in  the  old  deserted  parlours. 
I was  in  no  hurry.  At  last  I donned  my  hat  and  man- 
tilla, and  taking  Mrs.  Leslie’s  book  and  my  parasol, 
went  forth,  intending  to  do  a little  business  before  I 
should  repair  to  Mrs.  Skinner’s.  I felt  a singular  pleas- 
ure that  afternoon.  I do  not  know  that  it  had  its 
root  in  anything  good,  and  I shall  not  try  to  analyse  it 
at  present,  but  my  enjoyment  was  rather  peculiar. 
I did  not  wish  to  go  to  the  Skinners’  before  their  dinner, 
and  so  with  the  security  of  pleasure  before  me  I was  in 
no  haste.  It  was  a charming  afternoon.  I sauntered 
along  down  Fourth  Street,  to  the  Leslies’.  After 
waiting  some  time  down  came  Miss  Emma,  and  would 
have  had  me  forthwith  take  off  my  bonnet  and  stay, 
so  at  last  what  could  I do  but  tell  her  my  circumstances. 
But  I sat  a while  with  her.  On  my  way  up  I stopped  at 
Mrs.  Mason’s  to  find  if  she  would  want  me  the  next  day 
to  cut  out.  Found  she  would  want  me.  The  conver- 
sation there  was  gratifying  to  me  however,  for  she  said 
some  things  that  pleased  me.  In  a most  agreeable 
state  of  mind  (in  which  I had  been  since  I left  Mrs. 
Mitchell’s)  I crossed  the  square  to  Waverley  Place. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  Nobody  but  Elly  was  at 
home.  She  welcomed  me,  however,  and  with  her  I 
talked  and  drew  and  played  duets  till  Mary  and  Mrs. 
Skinner  came  home,  by  whom  I was  most  kindly 
received  again.  I had  expected  that  my  trunks  etc. 
would  be  brought  round  in  the  afternoon  or  evening, 
but  finding  that  could  not  well  be,  I went  round 
myself  with  Jemmy  to  get  nightgown  etc.  I filled  my 
little  bandbox  with  sundries,  and  Jemmy  took  it 
to  bring  home,  but  our  journey  on  the  return  was  not 


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At  Home  and  Away 

without  delays.  Bruno  was  of  the  party,  and  he,  nat- 
urally preferring  the  company  of  dogs  to  that  of  human 
kind,  made  troublesome  excursions,  or  tarried  behind, 
quite  unconscionably  and  inconveniently ; for  when  this 
happened,  Jemmy  delivered  the  bandbox  to  me  and  set 
off  in  pursuit  of  his  erratic  companion ; leaving  me  my 
choice,  to  stand  still  where  he  left  me  or  to  follow  after 
him  as  best  I might.  My  position  was  not  the  most 
agreeable,  for  you  must  be  sensible  that  a well-dressed 
lady  standing  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  street  with  an 
armful  of  bandbox,  in  the  night,  would  rather  attract 
the  attention  of  the  passers-by.  In  vain  I asked 
Jemmy  again  and  again  to  take  care  of  Bruno  and  leave 
to  me  the  easier  care  of  the  bandbox.  However  we  got 
home  safe.” 

The  letter  ends:  “My  dearest  Annie  good-bye.  God 
bless  you.  Seek  him  and  he  will.  Your  Susan.” 

Later  to  me  in  Boston:  “Pray  give  my  love 

to  all  the  three  friends  who  are  so  delicately  and 
thoughtfully  kind  to  you;  and  to  us  through  you. 
They  have  a claim  upon  us  henceforth,  not  for  ask- 
ing you  to  come  to  Boston,  but  for  that  kindness 
in  little  things  which  you  and  I so  highly,  and  I 
think  justly  esteem.  With  what  pleasure  shall  we 
welcome  them  to  Woodcrags,  if  we  live  and  they 
come,  next  summer.  I have  a story  for  you  that 
will  please  you.  ‘I  wonder,’  said  Elly  this  morning, 
(I  was  not  by)  ‘if  Miss  Anna  will  ever  get  married.’ 
‘I  dare  say  she  will,’  said  Mrs.  Skinner.  ‘Oh  I have 
no  doubt,’  said  Elly,  ‘she  ’ll  have  offers  enough,  but 
there  is  n’t  any  one  she ’d  let  hold  a candle  to  her,  but 
papa  and  Mr.  Warner.’  Isn’t  that  funny?  How  I 
laughed  when  I heard  it.’  ” 

“ April  17th.  My  dearest  Annie.  I have  neglected 


230 


Susan  Warner 


you  this  week. — I am  sorry  indeed  that  you  should  have 
looked  for  letters  and  been  disappointed — pray  forgive 
me.  There  have  been  perhaps,  I was  going  to  say  one 
or  two,  or  two  or  three  causes  of  my  silence,  but  I do  not 
say  it.  The  mood  of  letter  writing  has  not  possessed 
me ; I have  not  felt  that  I had  a great  deal  to  say  to  you. 
Some  of  the  time  at  least  this  has  been  true.  I re- 
ceived your  last  week’s  letter  (to  Aunty,  was  it  not?) 
on  Monday  morning,  and  received  it  with  joy.  I yes- 
terday had  another,  dated  Wednesday.  I thank  you 
dear  for  your  faithfulness  in  writing- — it  is  a great  pleas- 
ure to  me.  If  you  would  express  a little  more  the  move- 
ments of  your  mind.  I should  like  it.  You  are  very 
good  to  let  me  know  where  your  body  goes,  but  what  is 
the  restless  spirit  doing,  and  what  does  it  make  of  all 
the  new  scenes  and  objects  with  which  it  is  conversant 
now?” 

“ Oh  get  up  a little  earlier  in  the  morning,  and  unlock 
that  door  of  secretiveness  you  keep  so  fast,  and  let 
some  of  those  thoughts  and  feelings,  of  which  I know 
your  mind  is  brimfull,  flow  out  unrestrained  for  once. 
And  so  you  are  not  homesick,  and  are  enjoying  your- 
self exceedingly.  I am,  and  have  been  very  glad  of  it. 
It  is  very  pleasant  to  think  you  are  happy,  and  in  so 
different  a scene  and  manner  of  life  from  what  you  are 
accustomed  to.  I do  not  know  what  to  say  to  Mrs. 

B and  Fanny  and  Mary,  they  are  so  kind  to  you. 

I know  they  are  or  you  would  never  have  been  happy 
with  them  so  long.  I am  afraid  we  can  scarcely  hope 
to  be  the  means  of  as  much  pleasure  to  them,  but  we 
will  try  what  we  can  do. 

“ M.  seemed  decidedly  chagrined  that  you  propose  to 
stay  longer.  She  hoped  you  would  have  come  home 
with  Jemmy.  If  you  do  not,  I shall  send  you  a bonnet 


231 


At  Home  and  Away 

immediately.  Poor  child!  you  must  want  one,  and 
some  money  too,  I think.  I have  done  little  shopping 
yet,  except  the  purchase  of  a bonnet  which  however 
I have  worn  but  once — the  weather  has  been  so 
cold.  I have  finished  my  collecting  calls — don’t  you 
congratulate  me?” 

“ April  20th.  My  dear  Anna.  I am  still  here!  I 
could  not  accomplish  my  business  last  week,  it  was  out 
of  my  power,  and  Mrs.  Skinner  opposed  most  strenu- 
ously my  going  home ; and,  if  truth  must  be  told,  I was 
only  too  happy  to  stay.  Do  not  tell  anybody  I said  so, 
on  any  account,  but  perhaps  life  has  no  pleasure  for  me 
equal  to  those  I have  enjoyed  here.  No  other  lips  can 
speak  such  words  to  me  as  those  I have  heard  here, — 
such  words!  I do  hope,  too,  I have  not  heard  them 
quite  in  vain.  Might  their  vibrations  but  remain  upon 
the  chords  of  my  heart  forever! 

“It  is  Tuesday,  dear  Anna,  and  I have  just  a little 
while  ago  read  your  note,  which  I received  at  the  dinner 
table.  I hope  I shall  get  the  continuation  of  your 
journal  soon.  You  see  I am  insatiable.  I trust  you 
have  before  this  time  been  waited  upon  by  a bandbox ; 
an  old,  familiar-faced  bandbox  containing  a new  and 
very  unfamiliar  bonnet;  and  I trust  also  that  this 
strange  acquaintance  promises  to  prove  a permanent 
friend.  Welcome,  I am  sure  it  was.  It  is  like  mine,  in 
straw,  shape  and  trimming.  I think  you  will  not  like 
it  the  worse,  for  that.  I had  to  get  it  without  father ; 
and  without  father,  marvellous  as  it  seems,  I am  doing 
my  shopping.  Not  for  you  indeed, — I will  not  venture 
upon  such  an  enterprise;  but  for  Aunty  and  myself  I 
can  and  shall  purchase  what  we  want — so  far  as  my 
funds  will  permit  me.  It  is  pleasant  dear  Anna  to  send 
you  what  you  are  in  want  of ; it  is  pleasant  to  think  of 


232 


Susan  Warner 


your  exchanging  your  hot  black  hat  which  you  have  so 
patiently  worn,  for  a light,  new,  pretty,  cool  one,  which 
comes  walking  up  to  your  door  one  day,  most  oppor- 
tunely, without  any  quest  or  painstaking  on  your  part. 
I hope  it  fits  you  and  suits  you.  It  is  quite  giddy,  you 
see.  It  is  very,  very  warm  here  today ; and  I have  been 
spending  a good  part  of  the  morning  at  Mrs.  Mason’s ; 
the  last  Dorcas  meeting.  I have  just  now  a great  help 
in  the  business  of  getting  on  with  my  letter — to  wit, 
Mary  Skinner,  who  a little  while  ago  entered  my  room 
with  a very  sufficient  dish  of  blancmange,  pour  elle  et 
pour  moi;  and  of  course  while  we  were  demolishing  it, 
writing  was  rather  delayed ; and  then,  my  dear,  quite  a 
sufficient  quantity  of  talking  and  laughing. 

‘ ‘ I yesterday  heard  Miss  Catherine  Beecher  address 
an  assembly  of  ladies  in  our  lecture  room,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  sending  female  teachers  to  the  west — you  have 
seen  the  plan  mentioned  perhaps.  Whatever  antici- 
pations might  have  been  formed  of  somewhat  bold, 
unbecoming,  unwomanly  in  the  exhibition,  they  were 
not  fulfilled.  Miss  Beecher  made  a most  agreeable 
impression  upon  me.  Her  address  was  well  written  and 
very  interesting,  and  most  part  read  by  her  brother ; and 
her  own  deportment  was  very  modest,  delicate,  and 
proper.  She  is  I daresay  an  admirable  woman.” 

Another  day  she  whites : 

“Are  you  starving  yet  for  news  from  home?  I have 
accomplished  hitherto  almost  nothing  this  week,  and 
the  cause  is  to  be  found  in  a want  that  very  often  ties 
the  hands  of  people  as  efficient  as  myself — the  want  of 
funds.  This  has  kept  me  from  going  to  Maria  with  my 
dress;  but  as  soon  as  I can  see  father  I trust  I shall 
be  able  to  proceed  in  my  operations.  My  intention 
is  firm  at  all  events  to  go  home  Saturday.  I think 


233 


At  Home  and  Away 

myself  too  happy — I have  stayed  to  the  last  Bible 
class  evening.  And  Dr.  Skinner  goes  tomorrow  to  New 
Haven  and  thence  to  Boston,  so  he  will  not  be  here  for 
two  Sundays  to  come.  I am  glad  I have  written  you 
so  many  letters; — you  will  keep  them,  and  they  may 
serve  for  a slight  record  of  a happy  piece  of  my  life. 

“It  has  been  a happy  piece,  Annie ; I wish  the  remem- 
brance and  the  influence  of  it  might  abide  with  me 
forever.  Oh  that  it  might ! Dear  Anna,  won’t  you  be- 
come a helper  to  me  ? As  it  is,  there  is  only  one  person 
in  the  world,  that  I ever  hear  speak,  that  speaks  after 
my  own  heart,  but  he  does, — after  my  own  heart. 
How  worthless  and  uninteresting,  common  subjects  of 
attention  have  appeared  to  me  in  comparison.  But  the 
impression  easily  wears  off ; the  ordinary  trifles  of  this 
world  begin  to  loom  large  on  the  view ; and  that  which 
should  be  nearest  and  strongest  and  sweetest,  retires 
into  a dusky  and  uncertain  distance ; — is  little  realised, 
— little  felt, — little  tasted, — little  seen, — little  sought 
after.  To  ‘look  not  at  the  things  which  are  seen,  but 
at  those  which  are  not  seen’  should  be  our  constant 
ceaseless  endeavour.  I am  well  convinced  it  makes 
the  sweetest  life  in  the  world  to  ‘have  our  conversation 
in  heaven.’ 

“ Poor  as  I am,  I intend  to  enrich  my  library  with  two 
of  the  Tract  Society’s  publications  Dr.  Skinner  has 
been  recommending  in  my  hearing;  indeed  of  one  if 
not  both  he  was  speaking  directly  to  me.  I will  get 
them,  and  we  will  read  them,  shall  we  not  ? One  is  Ed- 
wards’ ‘Thoughts  on  Revivals,’  the  other  Dr.  Gregory’s 
‘Evidences  of  Christianity.’  The  latter  Dr.  S.  was 
recommending  to  Mary,  that  it  should  form  part  of  her 
daily  reading.  I wish  one  thing — that  father  would 
give  each  of  us  three  an  allowance.  Don’t  you  wish 


234 


Susan  Warner 


it?  How  much  would  you  bargain  for?  I should  like 
sixty  or  seventy  dollars.  It  would  be  very  amusing. 

“I  have  done  very  little  sewing  since  I have  been 
here.  Is  n’t  it  strange?  I contrive  to  have  my  atten- 
tion taken  up  by  so  many  other  things,  but  I hope  I 
shall  be  very  useful  and  helpful  when  I get  home. 
How  exactly  is  that  like  one  of  my  old  childish  hopes ! 
‘I  have  done  little  or  no  studying  the  past  week;  let 
me  now  do  better.’ 

“Alas  for  resolutions!  How  many  have  I made  in 
my  day!  and  what  empty  things  they  have  often  been. 
It  seems  to  me  I shall  be  remarkably  glad  to  see  you, 
and  I reckon  Aunt  Fanny  might  say  as  much  of  us 
both, — don’t  you  think  so? 

“Remember  me  most  ceremoniously  to  Miss  Lundie, 
and  inform  her  that  my  organ  of  self-esteem  is  far  too 
well  developed  to  permit  me  to  suppose  that  the  mere 
seeing  of  a name  can  greatly  affect  my  friends’  regard  of 
me.  If  it  needs  the  support  of  a euphonious  appella- 
tion, I may  as  well  give  up  at  once.  I stand  upon  my 
own  merits,  which  all  the  defects  of  the  name  of  Susan, 
Sue,  or  Sukey,  cannot  I hope  countervail.  I shew  I can 
write  nonsense.” 

“My  dear  little  sister.  Obviously  at  present  my 
first  business  is  to  take  care  of  you.  Your  last  welcome 
letter  evinced,  I am  afraid,  too  decided  symptoms  of  a 
malady  young  ladies  are  sometimes  troubled  with, — 
a sort  of  sickness — what  do  you  call  it? — not  sea-sick- 
ness. Impressed  with  this  notion — more  or  less,  I 
forthwith  wrote  you  a bit  of  a letter  which  will  go  today 
by  Dr.  Head,  authorising  you,  and  indeed  rather  advis- 
ing you,  to  come  back  time  enough  to  return  with  me 
Saturday  to  the  Island.  But  I would  not  have  you  do 
so  on  any  account  because  I said  so.  I wish  you  to  be, 


235 


At  Home  and  Away 

as  you  are,  free  as  air  to  do  what  it  likes  you  to  do  in  the 
premises ; while  if  you  think  best  to  come,  my  letter  will 
serve  you  for  an  excuse. 

“Aunt  Fanny  is  well;  better  than  when  she  went 
home ; and  I am  exceedingly  well,  and  father  has  had 
some  headaches,  and  tired  himself  somewhat  at  the 
Island.  They  burnt  the  meadows  when  he  was  up 
there,  last,  and  he  was  very  much  fatigued.  By  some 
carelessness,  or  mismanagement,  or  change  of  wind,  or 
by  all  three,  they  came  near  burning  over  the  whole 
island;  indeed  when  father  was  informed  of  the  state 
of  affairs  in  the  evening,  he  gave  the  matter  over  as 
inevitable  and  sat  some  time  at  his  papers;  but  Aunt 
Fanny  was  uneasy,  afraid  even  perhaps  for  the  house 
itself,  and  at  last  she  put  on  some  covering  and  went 
with  father  down  to  the  meadow.  He  then  thought 
there  was  something  for  him  to  do,  and  Aunty  agreed  to 
go  back  to  the  house  alone  while  he  proceeded  onward 
to  the  burning  district.  Wasn’t  she  brave?  The 
night  was  dark— not  even  stars  to  see  by,  I think. 
I should  not  have  liked  her  walk  home,  I am  sure,  but 
she  had  Bruce  with  her.  She  got  home  and  prepared 
coffee  etc.  and  father  and  the  men,  after  sad  hard  work, 
came  at  last  at  one  o’clock  or  thereabouts  to  partake 
of  what  she  had  provided,  and  father  gave  each  man  a 
dollar  and  sent  them  away  I daresay  not  ill  satisfied 
with  the  night’s  work.  But  father  felt  the  effects  of  it 
the  next  day.  However,  the  Island  is  not  burnt  over, 
which  is  a great  good  thing. 

“I  told  you  I was  going  to  Mrs.  Little’s.  Mary 
and  I did  go,  as  I said;  but  oh!  my  dear,  what 
stupid  work!  We  had  not  many  people,  but  a 
new  set,  and  rather  a poor  set  too.  And  dear 
Anna,  we  played  games,  and  they  were  worserer  and 


236 


Susan  Warner 


worserer, — ‘consequences’ — and  ‘cross  questions  and 
silly  answers,’  silly  enough  I promise  you; — and  a game 
called  ‘What’s  my  thought  like,’  played  after  this 
fashion; — ‘Miss  Warner,  what ’s  my  thought  like?’ — 
‘ Like  the  Wind’ ; — ‘ Well  why  is  the  Emperor  Nicholas 
like  the  Wind  ? ’ Then  must  I find  some  point  of  re- 
semblance direct  or  indirect,  near  or  far,  between  her 
thought  and  my  comparison.  Oh  Annie!  oh  Annie! 
what  spending  of  time!  Isn’t  it  doleful?  We  came 
away  nice  and  early,  and  got  home  to  prayers. 
What  sort  of  society  is  that?  The  trees  of  the  back- 
woods  are  better  companions.  They  really  do  hold 
noble  and  lofty  discourse  with  one,  and  one  may  come 
away  from  it  refined,  improved,  sanctified.  It  is  not 
that  I have  done  so,  but  I know  that  I might. 

“There  if  thy  spirit  touch  the  soul,  and  grace  her  mean 
abode, — 

Oh,  with  what  peace,  and  joy  and  love,  she  communes  with 
her  God. 

“Dearest  Annie,  you  and  I know,  by  experience , 
too  little  of  this.  If  I could  only  see  things  as 
Dr.  Skinner  sees  them!  What  beauty  and  glory, 
to  his  eye,  beam  from  passages  where  I never  was 
struck  with  anything  particularly  It  is  a happiness  to 
know  at  any  rate  that  the  source  of  his  light  is  open  to 
me  too.  But  what  a difference  there  is  between  being, 
as  it  were,  borne  up  on  eagle’s  wings  toward  the  sky 
when  I hear  him  preach,  or  pray,  or  talk,  and  being 
left  to  myself,  as  it  were,  on  the  ground,  struggling  to 
rise  a little  way  by  flapping  my  own  untrained  and  un- 
practiced pinions.  Alas!  what  a difference.  But  I 
ought  not  to  say  ‘alas,’  but  to  be  glad  that  I have  the 
teaching  and  stimulus  of  his  example.  Yesterday  was 


237 


At  Home  and  Away 

rich  in  the  excellence  of  its  discourses.  Oh  Annie 
what  would  you  have  given  to  be  here!  We  had  in  the 
morning  the  old  dialogue  sermon!  I had  knowledge 
before  of  his  intention  to  preach  it  again,  so  I was  not 
surprised,  but  do  you  think  I was  an  uninterested  lis- 
tener? In  the  afternoon  we  had  another  most  excel- 
lent effective  discourse  on  the  words  ‘Turn  you  at  my 
reproof’  etc.  Dr.  S.  said  afterwards,  he  felt  he  had  the 
minds  of  the  congregation  in  his  hands,  while  delivering 
it,  I mean.  It  is  pleasant  dear  Anna  to  tell  you  all 
sorts  of  things,  that  come  into  my  mind.  There  is 
scarcely  anybody  else  in  the  world  to  whom  I should 
wish  to  write  with  quite  so  much  freedom  as  to  you.  I 
hope  you  thoroughly  appreciate  this  fact.  As  to  your 
returning  it  in  kind}  it ’s  not  a thing  to  be  thought  o ’ , 
but  no  matter.  You  and  I are  a little  unlike  each  other, 
— so  much  the  better  perhaps.” 

“ Woodcrags.  May  2nd.  My  dearest  Anna.  Once 
again — m’y  voila.  I did  fairly  come  Saturday  as  I said ; 
did  n’t  you  expect  to  hear  that  something  or  other  had 
happened  to  detain  me?  And  they  said  they  were 
sorry  to  have  me  go, — could  you  have  conceived  it? 
After  nearly  five  weeks!  But  I asked  father  that  ques- 
tion, and  he  gave  us  to  understand  that  he  might  con- 
ceive how  it  should  be,  better  than  other  people;  so 
perhaps  in  like  manner  you  will  be  able  to  comprehend 
the  strangeness  of  it.  But  it  is  very  pleasant  as  well 
as  strange — is  n’t  it? 

“ After  finishing  my  letter  to  you  on  Friday,  Mary  and 
I equipped  ourselves,  and  taking  each  an  umbrella  set 
out  on  our  long  tramp.  It  was  not  a very  sociable 
walk,  for  you  know  large  umbrellas  are  decidedly 
unfavourable  to  people’s  putting  their  heads  together, 
and  indeed  in  the  rain  every  one  has  enough  to  do  to 


238 


Susan  Warner 


look  after  his  own  head  and  feet.  Mary  left  me  at 
Chambers  St.  to  go  to  Stewart’s,  and  I went  to  New- 
man’s and  left  my  letter,  and  thence  to  the  Tract-house, 
where  Mary  joined  me.  And  there  we  spent  a pretty 
long  time ! — hunting  out  our  tracts ; I possessed  myself 
of  the  two  books  of  which  I spoke  to  you.  At  length 
when  we  came  out  with  our  treasure  we  found  it  was 
late,  so  got  into  an  omnibus  and  had  a nice  ride  home. 
Father  came  in  the  afternoon  and  stayed  to  tea. 
Agreed  to  meet  him  at  the  Santa  Claus  before  half- 
past three  next  day.  Was  up  till  pretty  late  packing, 
and  then  so  tired  that  though  I thought  I saw  a mouse 
in  the  room  I lay  down  and  went  to  sleep  quietly,  having 
first  used  what  precautions  I might  against  his  taking 
my  face  in  his  way,  in  the  course  of  his  perambulations ; 
as,  item:  I placed  biscuit  on  the  hearth  that  the  crav- 
ings of  hunger,  if  such  he  had,  or  the  mere  want  of  some- 
thing to  do,  might  not  urge  him  to  scale  my  bed  in 
search  of  a supply.  Lest  nevertheless  he  should  under- 
take the  nutritious  project,  with  no  definite  purpose  in 
view  (unless  indeed  the  passion  for  making  discoveries 
exists  in  the  mouse  tribe) — item  the  second:  I tucked 
in  the  bedclothes  nicely  and  pulled  out  the  bedstead 
from  the  wall,  that  no  unhappy  coverlid,  or  corner  of  a 
sheet,  depending,  might  serve  him  for  a ladder,  or  an 
invitation,  and  that  making  the  attempt,  he  might  fall 
back  disappointed  from  the  smooth  face  of  the  mahog- 
any. Third  and  last  item,  I left  the  light  burning, 
and  shining  full  on  that  same  face  of  mine — not  indeed 
so  much  for  prevention  as  provision.  I omitted  to  say 
that  I had  also  made  benevolent  efforts  to  awaken 
Mary  Skinner  to  a sense  of  my  dilemma,  but  getting 
from  her  nothing  more  pertinent  than  a direction  to 
‘send  him  to  bed,’  (which  I should  have  been  most 


239 


At  Home  and  Away 

heartily  glad  to  do) , I was  fain  to  proceed  as  I have  told 
you.  The  next  day  I did  not  get  up  early.  After  break- 
fast Mary  and  I went  with  five  unmade  dresses — no,  six — 
to  Maria’s,  where  I left  them.  We  got  them  there,  you 
must  know,  by  the  help  of  a travelling  bag.  We  went 
to  Canal  St.,  and  then  up  Broadway,  shopping.  Or- 
dered my  carriage,  or  rather,  went  with  Mary  and  she 
ordered  it.  Came  home  and  took  a bath — finished 
packing — said  goodby — rode  down  to  the  boat  with 
Fanny  and  Mary, — and  behold  father  and  me  at  length 
on  the  upper  deck  of  the  Santa  Claus,  speeding  our 
way  up  the  river.  It  is  said  straws  shew  which  way  the 
wind  blows.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  till  just  now, — - 
but  father  and  I watched  the  church  spires  as  we  passed 
by  the  city,  and  I caught  but  one  glimpse  and  was  n’t 
quite  sure  I did  that,  of  our  own  tower.  I had  my 
books  in  my  lap — but  I did  n’t  open  them.  I was 
rather  in  a passive  than  an  active  state  of  mind.  I 
gazed  at  the  things  that  presented  themselves  before 
my  eyes — remarked  again  for  the  hundredth  time  the 
exceeding  poor  and  unprepossessing  appearance  of  the 
men — dozed  a little — mused  a little — felt  the  scene 
and  the  place  were  disgusting — reached  home  at  last.” 

The  following  October  she  wrote  from  Staten  Island : 

“ My  dearest  Anna.  I must  write  to  you,  although 
I am  not  altogether  in  the  mood.  Don’t  you  find  that 
when  we  are  separated,  our  hearts,  as  if  indignant  at 
the  unnatural  act,  hound  back  to  each  other?  I have 
thought  of  you  often  since  we  parted,  have  n’t  you  done 
the  like?” 

After  details  about  the  short  journey:  “Mrs.  C. 
met  me  before  I entered  the  house,  and  forced  me  in  the 
energy  of  her  salutation  into  a decidedly  uncomfortable 
position.  What  could  I do  but  laugh?  So  I laughed. 


Susan  Warner 


240 

It  is  a sweet  little  house,  one  of  the  cheerfullest  and 
prettiest  I ever  saw.  We  soon  had  a substantial 
dinner-supper;  after  which  we  sat  by  the  table  and 
talked,  and  I had  the  pleasure  of  singing  ‘ Whar  hae  ye 
been’  etc.  and  ‘O  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie’;  and  after 
that  I read  aloud  in  Dr.  Spring’s  book,  which  I did  not 
excessively  admire.  Early  I was  shown  to  my  room — 
a dear  little  room  with  neat  white  painted  furniture, 
a nice  single  bed,  dressing-table  with  an  elaborate  toilet 
cushion  which  Rosie  had  removed  to  my  room  because 
I was  a ‘ stranger,’  a nice  hat-stand  for  holding  of  course 
all  sorts  of  things  besides  hats,  a little  tripod  wash- 
stand  and  maiden  with  plenty  of  towels,  a glass  and 
blind  door  opening  out  of  the  house.  Dear  Anna  I was 
quite  ready  to  sleep,  and  I did  sleep  soundly.  This 
morning  I got  up  in  time  enough  to  get  dressed  for 
breakfast — but  my  dear,  what  a thing  it  is  to  dress  one- 
self/” — (that  is,  without  my  help.)  “My  belt  answers 
nicely  and  I would  n’t  be  without  my  inkstand  for 
anything,  I assure  you.  Yesterday  I went  into  the 
water  with  Mrs.  Codwise.  My  dear  I never  can  tell 
you  how  funny  it  was ; at  least  I don’t  know  that  I can 
but  I ’ll  try.  It  was  before  breakfast.  I was  already 
washed  and  partially  dressed,  when  Rosie  came  to  my 
door  and  threw  on  my  floor  a bathing  gown,  old  shoes, 
and  a warm  wrapper.  I disrobed  myself,  and  tying  up 
my  head  in  my  oilskin  cap  and  availing  myself  of  Rosie’s 
supplies,  I followed  Mrs.  C.  down  to  the  beach  and  not 
stopping  to  be  afraid,  waded  in  after  her.  Without 
much  hesitation,  when  I had  advanced  far  enough  I 
very  bravely  ducked  in  my  head;  but  when  I drew  it 
out  I was  so  blinded,  giddy,  and  utterly  unable  to 
command  my  footing,  that  I just  floundered  over  into 
the  water  again — rolled  over  like  a porpoise,  according 


At  Home  and  Away 


241 


to  Mrs.  C.,  who  was  before  me ; and  who,  having  dipped, 
turned  toward  me  in  time  to  witness  the  second  disap- 
pearance of  my  head.  I was  not  frightened,  for  I knew 
she  was  near,  but  I had  not  expected  to  find  myself  pos- 
sessed of  such  extraordinary  buoyancy. — Manage  my- 
self I could  not,  and  I don’t  know  but  Mrs.  Codwise  had 
quite  enough  to  do  to  manage  me.  What  became  of  my 
lower  extremities  or  of  the  habiliments  which  should 
have  covered  them,  I cannot  inform  you,  for  I was  not 
in  a condition  to  observe  and  I have  never  liked  to  ask. 

It  must  remain  a mystery — but  it  is  a mystery  upon 
which  I can  scarcely  muse  without  laughter.  Having 
at  last  with  Mrs.  C.’s  help  regained  my  footing,  and 
leaving  one  shoe  behind  me,  never  to  be  used  as  a 
bathing  shoe  again,  I walked  up  to  the  house  and  to  my 
own  room,  dried  my  person  and  washed  my  sandy  feet, 
dressed  and  was  comfortable.  I was  not  the  worse  for 
my  ducking — not  a bit,  so  I suppose  I was  the  better 
for  it,  but  oh  what  a provocation  of  laughter  has  the 
recollection  of  it  been  ever  since ! There  was  something 
in  the  scene,  as  I partly  recollected,  and  partly  imag- 
ined it,  irresistibly  ludicrous  to  me. 

“Aunty  must  n’t  be  jealous  that  this  letter  is  not  to 
her;  it  must  be  to  you — do  you  understand?  Are  n’t 
our  shawls  delicious?  I wore  mine  today.  Here  is 
Miss  Mary  Green  tonight  and  I don’t  know  how  much 
company  tomorrow. 

“Good-night.  Remember — one  thing  is  needful.’’ 

In  the  following  December,  when  we  both  had  gone 
to  Boston  and  been  waylaid  by  a heavy  storm  of  wind 
and  snow,  she  wrote  concerning  the  same : 

“My  dearest  father.  How  could  you  and  Aunty 
be  so  troubled  about  us?  Is  it  well  to  suffer  oneself 


242 


Susan  Warner 


to  be  seriously  disturbed  and  unhappy  till  one  knows 
there  is  reason?  And  you  will  not  say  you  knew 
there  was  sufficient  cause  for  the  great  discomfort  you 
felt  last  Thursday.  You  did  not  know  where  the  storm 
met  us ; — you  did  not  know  that  it  met  us  at  all ; you 
did  know  that  we  had  a most  excellent  travelling  com- 
panion, that  we  are  nowise  disposed  to  be  rash,  our- 
selves, and  that  we  were  moreover  in  those  hands  to 
which  a storm  is  as  a calm.  And  now  see ; — that  very 
evening  that  aunty  and  you  were  suffering  so  on  our 
account,  I was  enjoying  myself  particularly.  And 
those  two  days  of  our  journey  were  as  pleasant  as  any 
I have  passed  since  I saw  you.  Now  was  it  not  vain  to 
be  over-anxious  about  us?  But  perhaps  it  is  vain  to 
preach  peace  to  you  and  aunty  in  certain  circumstances ; 
there  seems  to  be  then  none  for  her  at  least. 

“You  may  remember  that  in  the  beginning  of  this  af- 
fair, when  it  was  at  first  talked  of  at  home,  I was  not  par- 
ticularly desirous  to  come.  But  when  it  was  fairly 
decided  upon,  my  feelings  changed.  And  now  I am 
very  glad  indeed  to  be  here.  I hope  you  and  aunty  can 
feel  so  too,  and  be  glad  for  our  sakes,  and  wish,  as  I wish, 
that  the  time  of  our  return  should  be  regulated  entirely 
by  circumstances.  As  we  find  it  pleasant,  and  as  our 
friends  find  it  pleasant,  let  us  stay  or  go.  Can  you  be 
of  the  same  mind,  father?  We  are  not  likely  to  make 
another  visit  to  Boston  soon ; and  Annie  and  I are  cer- 
tainly in  the  way  of  getting  good  as  well  as  pleasure. 
I like  Boston  exceedingly:  much  better  than  New  York, 
as  a city ; and  Oh  how  I like  to  see  and  hear  intelligent 
people!  What  pleasure  I have  in  this  way  enjoyed,  a 
few  times  in  my  life!  Can  you  understand  it,  father? 
As  if  my  very  physical  frame  were  quivering  with  men- 
tal and  moral  gratification.  But  there  are  very  few 


At  Home  and  Away  243 

people  that  really  suit  me,  and  in  all  the  course  of  my 
life  I can  hope  to  see  but  very  few.  I sometimes  think 
of  the  ‘ spirits  of  the  just  made  perfect .’  There  will  be 
society!  Shall  I never  have  what  I like  till  I get  there ? 

‘ ‘ I have  nice  practisings  upon  a charming  piano ; I 
don’t  know  when  I have  seen  one  with  a more  exquisite 
touch.  I enjoy  these  practisings.  And  they  ask  me  to 
play  for  them,  too,  which  is  kind  and  polite  at  least. 
Anna  is  going  to  begin  drawing  today  with  Mr.  Votin. 
We  have  enough  to  do,  too,  in  preparing  our  New  .Year’s 
presents.  And  I have  been  thinking,  really  thinking, 
of  taking  up  the  Latin  grammar.  You  see,  father,  I 
ring  the  changes  upon  the  word,  or  rather  the  thing, 
pleasure.  How  much  I enjoy!  How  much  I have  to 
enjoy!  And  at  this  moment  the  bright  cheerful  sun  is 
shining  on  the  dome  of  the  statehouse,  just  opposite  the 
window,  and  lighting  up  most  beautiful  city  views 
commanded  from  different  sides  of  the  room,  and 
everything  bids  me  joy,  and  rejoice.  I wish  I could 
bid  you  joy  and  rejoice  with  me,  dear  father.  Is  it  not 
true  that  we  realise  and  obey  far  too  faintly  that  com- 
mand,— ‘be  careful  for  nothing ’ — ‘casting  all  your  care 
upon  him,  for  he  careth  for  you?’  Oh  I know  I am 
dreadfully  culpable  in  this  matter.  How  happy  we 
should  infallibly  be  if  we  could  mind  it. 

“Anna  and  I have  both  had  some  cold,  but  are  both 
getting  rid  of  it  nicely.  Anna  looks  exceeding  well. 
I am  not  sure  but  we  suffered  less  from  our  journey  than 
we  might  if  it  had  been  performed  in  one  day ; we  had  a 
very  good  night’s  rest  at  Greenport.  I have  not  sent 
you  any  account  of  our  adventures  yet.  I must  do  it 
I think ; but  it  would  be  too  long  for  this  letter.  I like 
railroad  travelling,  from  my  thus  far  experience  of  it, 
and  the  novelty,  excitement,  and  adventure  of  our 


244 


Susan  Warner 


journey  was  to  me  decidedly  pleasurable : as  there  was 
an  admixture  of  somewhat  that  made  it  pleasurable. 
I have  felt  very  little  of  the  reaction  I expected,  on 
arriving  at  the  end  of  it. 

“Dr.  Woods,  his  sister  and  brother-in-law,  dined  here 
yesterday.  This  is  my  first  personal  acquaintance  with 
the  above-mentioned  renowned  personage.  Certainly 
I am  not  particularly  struck  with  the  first  sight  of  him. 
I have  heard  nothing  very  wise  from  his  lips  as  yet; 
and  I do  not  like  that  slow,  quiet,  graduated  tone  and 
manner, — as  if  a pretty  little  frost  had  fallen  upon  all 
the  natural  scenery  of  his  mind.  Mr.  J acob  Abbott  is  a 
little  in  that  way,  too.  It  does  n’t  suit  me.  I like 
people  that  are  more  like  myself.  Dr.  Woods  and  his 
brother-in-law,  Dr.  Salter,  also  drank  ale  and  port  wine 
at  the  dinner  table,  not  with  striking  moderation 
either,  at  least  the  last;  and  how  can  I like  that?  I 

do  not  like  it,  or  Mrs. ’s  giving  the  means  to  them. 

What  arguments  we  have  had  already!  But  dear 
father,  it  seems  of  very  little  use  to  argue  with  her.  I 
shall  try  to  content  myself  with  saying  but  little  on 
disputed  points  in  future. 

“How  much  wisdom  it  requires  to  speak  wisely  for 
the  truth,  Oh  father! — The  girls  are  going  out  and 
wdll  take  this  letter.  It  is  the  first  one  I have  written 
since  I have  been  here.  Good  bye  dear  father.  We 
shall  be  most  happy  to  get  letters  from  you  when  you 
can  find  time  to  write  them. 

“Your  affectionate  Susan.” 

I have  given  one  letter  with  small  curtailing,  as  a 
fair  specimen ; but  for  the  most  part  I must  content  my- 
self with  extracts,  and  leave  the  story  of  the  journey 
untouched  altogether. 


At  Home  and  Away 


245 


“My  dear  Aunty.  You  have  concluded  me  an  odd 
girl  sometime  ago,  have  you  not?  That  I should  have 
been  here  so  long  without  writing  to  you ! How  strange 
it  is.  And  yet  it  is  not  strange ; for  I have  had  a very 
constant  and  very  decided  indisposition  to  letter  writ- 
ing ever  since  I came.  I knew  also  that  Anna’s  in- 
defatigable application  to  the  duty  I was  neglecting 
would  prevent  your  suffering  from  any  great  dearth  of 
news.  I do  not  pretend  to  excuse  myself  however;  I 
might  find  it  rather  a difficult  task.  I merely  state  the 
fact,  which  you  may  have  inferred  from  my  prolonged 
and  obstinate  silence, — that  I have  not  been  in  the 
mood  to  write.  And  with  characteristic  self-indul- 
gence, you  see,  I have  followed  my  mood,  quite 
irrespective  of  yours  the  while.  Well,  forgive  me;  I 
will  try  to  do  better.  (Don’t  laugh.) 

‘ ‘ New  Year’s  day  Dr.  Woods  and  President  Wheeler 
dined  with  us.  Anna  and  I were  pleased  with  a certain 
something  in  the  style  and  manners  of  the  last  named 
gentleman  that  reminded  us  of  father.  He  strikes  me  as 
decidedly  sensible  and  pleasant — remarkably  so- — but  I 
have  not  seen  enough  to  make  up  my  mind  fairly  about 
him.  As  for  Dr.  Woods,  I cannot  help  liking  his  ami- 
ability, sense  and  sincerity ; but  he  is  not  one  of  the  per- 
sons I should  ever  find  very  congenial  to  me.  I cannot 
like,  nowadays,  to  see  a gentleman  drink  two  glasses  of 
port,  after  having  already  taken  ale,  with  his  dinner. 
And  I do  not  like  his  slow  and  softly  utterance  and  man- 
ner; and  of  course  I dissent  very  far  from  some  of  his 
notions  on  important  points.  Still,  he  is  a pleasanter 
person,  by  much,  than  most  you  see.  In  the  evening, 
as  you  know,  we  went  to  Mrs. — - — I had  a dull  time,  I 
must  confess.  I had  nobody  to  talk  to  worth  talking 
to ; and  there  were  a set  of  children  to  be  amused,  with 


246 


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whom  we  played  children’s  games.  I had  a very  pleas- 
ant occupation  however  when  I could  sit  quiet  and  look 
at  Anna.  They  seemed  pleased  to  see  her  again;  I 
don’t  wonder  at  that  I am  sure. 

“The  next  evening  Herz  was  to  play  at  the  Philhar- 
monic Concert.  The  girls  were  all  going  to  hear  him, 
with  Dr.  Woods ; but  I was  obstinate  in  refusing  to  go. 
I wished  heartily  that  they  would  leave  me  to  have  a 
lovely  evening  alone  by  myself.  But  Mrs.  B.  would 
stay  too,  being  unwilling  to  undergo  the  long  waiting 
that  was  thought  necessary  to  secure  good  seats.  But 
after  the  party  was  fairly  off  in.  came  Dr.  Salter. 
He  had  a ticket,  and  he  declared  it  unnecessary  to  go  so 
early,  knowing  one  place  in  the  house,  a very  good  one, 
which  was  pretty  sure  to  be  left  unoccupied  till  late. 
Then  he  and  Mrs.  B.  set  upon  me  anew,  and  so  plied 
me  with  arguments  and  persuasions,  mixed  with  a 
little  flattery,  that  at  last  I was  fain  to  give  over  my 
opposition. 

“When  I was  fairly  gotten  to  the  place,  I enjoyed  the 
concert  in  my  own  way ; in  a sort  of  gloomy  grandeur  of 
spirit — Have  n’t  you  seen  me  enjoy  things  in  that  way? 
I did  enjoy  it  however,  but  what  pleased  me  best  were 
one  or  two  overtures  performed  by  the  whole  or- 
chestra. How  well  performed  I don’t  know;  they 
gratified  me  at  any  rate,  one  of  them  much.  I don’t 
think  Herz  any  great  affair — perhaps  I am  wrong. 

“Tuesday  evening  we  had  a regular  tea-fight.  His- 
tory Lord  and  his  wife  and  wife’s  sister,  ‘Two  Years 
before  the  Mast’  and  his  little  brother  Edmund  in 
his  red  waistcoat;  Dr.  Woods  and  his  sister  Mrs. 
Salter.  A good  deal  of  pleasant  sensible  talk  went  on, 
and  the  last  person,  the  red  waistcoat,  did  n’t  go  away 
till  near  eleven.  So  it  is  fair  to  conclude  the  people 


247 


At  Home  and  Away 

enjoyed  themselves.  I was  amused  for  one.  I feel 
besides  a rousing  and  exciting  effect  upon  my  mind 
from  the  intercourse  I have  with  different  persons. 
Dr.  Woods  dined  here  yesterday,  and  I believe  we  are 
engaged  out  to  tea,  every  evening  this  week.  I prac- 
tise, and  work  and  read,  (though  I must  confess  not  a 
great  deal  of  the  latter),  and  talk;  a good  deal  of  that. 
Mrs.  B.  thinks  me,  I fear,  sadly  illiberal  in  theory;  indeed 
she  says  as  much.  She  thinks  my  head  is  very  narrow- 
minded, thought  she  gives  my  heart  credit  for  not  being 
so.  I am  glad  there  is  some  redeeming  point  on  which 
she  can  fix  with  complacency ; but  it  is  like  to  be  long 
before  I am  liberal  in  her  sense  of  the  term.  I hope 
I am  not  obstinate.  Besides  all  this,  I walk.  Oh! 
what  delicious  walks ! Annie  and  I go  out  together  and 
go  round  and  round  the  Common.  Oh,  how  beautiful 
it  is!  and  how  dearly  I enjoy  it!  I shall  look  back  to 
these  walks;  you  can  take  none  such  in  New  York  by 
possibility.  We  have  had  most  beautiful  weather, 
delicious  air,  lovely  western  skies,  and  oh!  how  we  two 
have  enjoyed  them  together,  along  with  the  fine  views 
on  which  they  cast  such  a lustre.  Anna  is  looking 
exceedingly  well,  and  I am  admirably. 

“Last  night  Mrs.  B.  and  F.  went  with  Dr.  Woods  and 
others  to  hear  a lecture  on  the  massacre  of  St.  Barthol- 
omew— the  counter -protestant  statement  of  the  case,  or 
something  like  it.  Dr.  Woods  tried  to  induce  me  to 
go  in  hopes  of  being  able  to  form  a more  charitable  opin- 
ion of  the  actors  in  that  horrible  drama,  or  those  who 
are  supposed  to  be  the  actors.  But  I conceived  that 
the  judgment  I had  already  formed  of  the  transaction 
was  not  erroneous  nor  my  data  false ; and  I felt  not  the 
slightest  disposition  to  try  to  look  at  the  affair  as  any 
less  iniquitous  than  I had  always  considered  it.” 


248 


Susan  Warner 


“Jan.  1 2th. 

“My  dear  Aunty. 

“Anna  told  you,  I suppose,  of  our  Thursday  and 
Friday  evening  tea  drinkings  of  last  week.  The 
visit  to  Mrs.  R’s  was  very  pleasant  to  me;  they  are 
such  nice  good  people.  I felt  as  if  I had  something  in 
common  with  them.  Talking,  knitting  and  supper 
were  the  occupation  and  amusement  of  the  evening. 
The  next  evening  at  Mrs.  D’s,  was  not  so  agreeable. 
However,  on  the  whole,  it  passed  off  very  well.  Satur- 
day morning  I w^ent  out  with  the  girls,  and  leaving 
them  at  the  southerly  or  southeastern  corner  of  the 
Common,  I went  the  rest  of  the  way,  twice  round,  alone. 
I had  a very  pleasant  walk ; so  entirely  alone,  uninter- 
rupted, unobserved.  Oh ! that  beautiful  Common ! — 

“Mr.  Hudson  came  in  the  evening  and  stayed  a good 
while;  till  I was  tired  of  knitting.  Conversation  on 
Foster — friendship  between  party  men — mental  equality 
or  inequality  between  the  sexes — obedience  whether  due 
from  wives  to  husbands,  and  Dr.  Bushnell’s  opinion  to 
the  contrary — etc.  On  this  last  question  we  were  di- 
vided,— Mr.  Hudson,  Anna  and  I holding  the  affirma- 
tive, and  Mrs.  B.  and  the  girls  siding  with  Dr.  Bushnell, 
whom  I must  conceive  to  have  rather  an  erratic  mind. 
After  Hudson’s  departure  w’e  had  another  long  confab 
by  ourselves,  and  went  to  bed  not  very  early.  To-day 
I have  been  five  times  round  the  Common ; that  is  to  say, 
five  miles  and  a half.  What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

“All  are  going  to  a little  party  tonight  (Saturday)  at 
Mrs.  Minot’s.  I do  not  know  what  I shall  do;  but  on 
many  accounts  I should  love  best  to  stay  at  home. 
(I  am  writing  Saturday,  you  must  know,  the  account  of 
Thursday.)  In  the  evening  Mr.  West  came  and  stayed 
a long  time  talking  and  telling  things  about  Byron, 


At  Home  and  Away 


2 49 

Shelley,  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  the  poet  Rogers,  and 
himself.  He  stayed  till  I was  weary  of  knitting  and  of 
him. 

“Friday — the  girls  went  to  history  and  I to  practise. 
I enjoy  practising.  Then,  when  they  returned,  Mary, 
Anna  and  I went  out.  We  took  quite  a long  walk  to 
visit  a poor  woman,  and  then  Annie  and  I went  once 
round  the  Common.  Returned  — dressed  — copied 
texts — dined — worked  a little — read  a little — when  it 
was  darkling,  and  the  girls  were  gone  out,  sat  a long 
time  on  the  floor  with  my  head  in  Annie’s  lap,  not 
sleeping  but  musing.  At  tea  laughed  a good  deal  at 
nothings,  after  our  old  fashion.  Spent  part  of  the 
evening  very  pleasantly  reading  Foster  aloud,  and  hear- 
ing read  aloud  a review  of  Foster  by  Hudson. 

“Thank  you  for  your  letter.  What  a good  Aunty 
you  were  to  be  sure,  to  write  two  such  long  ones  in 
such  quick  succession. 

“My  indisposition  to  let  ter- writing  seems  to  continue. 
You  do  not  think — you  cannot  think- — it  has  any  con- 
nection with  want  of  affection  and  interest.  You  can- 
not think  that.  But  I have  been  said  to  be  selfish,  you 
know ; and  I think  it  is  very  likely  the  charge  may  be  not 
without  foundation.  It  is  true,  at  any  rate,  that  I have 
been  exceedingly  wrapped  up  in  myself  since  I have 
been  here.  You  must  not  expect  many  letters  from 
me ; I shall  not  get  my  wonted  epistolary  mood  in  time 
to  send  you  many.  You  must  take  me  as  you  find  me ; 
Anna  deserves  much  better  at  your  hands  I confess, 
than  I do. 

“Not  long  ago  my  self-will  took  fast  hold  of  a matter 
with  which  it  had,  lawfully,  no  manner  of  concern; 
inasmuch  as  it  was  no  more  in  my  power  to  control 
it  than  it  was  to  make  one  hair  white  or  black.  What 


250 


Susan  Warner 


had  self-will  to  do  ? But  you  know  mine : it  took  hold 
of  this  matter  with  so  firm  a clasp  that  it  has  needed  a 
long  time  to  unloose  it, — though  it  is  now  somewhat 
loosened.  I don’t  know  when  ever  in  my  life  I have 
wished  so  much  and  so  impatiently,  for  something  I 
could  not  obtain.  Now  Aunty,  this  is  discipline  for 
me,  a new  and  doubtless  a useful  one.  My  will  was 
never  so  crossed  before.  This  has  materially  altered 
the  character  of  my  visit,  and  made  and  kept  me  very 
sober  indeed,  at  heart,  however  cheerful  I may  have 
appeared  outwardly.  Perhaps  this  is  well  too:  who 
knows  but  amid  the  novelty  and  variety  of  these  new 
scenes  it  may  have  been  well  for  me  to  have  a sobering 
influence  constantly  at  work?  I have  had  it  at  any 
rate.  Why  do  I write  you  all  this?  Not  to  trouble 
you  certainly;  you  must  be  glad,  rather.  You  know 
well  enough  what  my  self-will  is,  to  be  well  convinced 
that  it  needs  checking.  Neither  do  I wish  to  excite 
your  curiosity,  for  I have  no  intention  of  gratifying  it. 
I do  not  care,  all  things  considered,  to  tell  you  what  it 
is  over  which  my  poor  brain  has  been  busy  these  weeks 
past;  so  you  must  not  even  ask  me.  Do  you  mark 
that,  Aunty?  I know  well  enough  that  if  you  began 
with  your  interrogations,  you  would  very  likely  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  that  which  I desire  to  keep  from 
you.  So  you  must  ask  me  no  questions  about  it. 
There  is  a portion  of  secretiveness  in  my  nature, 
you  see ; I have  little  enough  to  boast  of,  I am  sure.” 
Speaking  of  one  house  where  she  was  a good  deal, 
she  tells  of  the  “stifling  moral  atmosphere.”  “Such, 
wretched  and  utter  perversion  of  truth  on  many, 
many  important  points,  indeed  on  the  whole  field  of 
truth  in  general.  It  is  of  no  manner  of  use  to  talk ; and 
yet  very  difficult  w'hen  you  hear  that  black  is  white  to 


251 


At  Home  and  Away 

avoid  saying  you  do  not  think  so.  Mrs. *s.  notions 

seem  to  me  the  progeny  of  the  moonbeams  and  the 
mist.” 

“To-night  we  are  to  have  a party  at  home;  I don’t 
know  exactly  how  many  people.  I don’t  care  much, 
either;  I am  prepared  for  the  occasion  with  a settled 
fund  of  gravity, — of  which  I have  a stock  on  hand 
that  seems  likely  to  last  me  for  a good  while.  Well — 
ballast  is  a very  good  thing  in  a gale  of  wind.  I have 
been  four  times  round  the  Common  to-day — Anna 
accompanied  me  during  two  rounds,  and  then  left  me 
to  make  the  other  two  by  myself.  One  round  is  said 
to  be  a mile  and  an  eighth.  My  walks  do  me  good  I 
think,  for  I am  looking  very  well  and  so  is  Anna,  I am 
happy  to  say.  I hope  you  and  father  can  say  as  much 
yourselves.  I had  a nice  letter  from  dear  father  this 
morning,  which  as  Anna  can  tell  you  pleased  me  much. 
She  brought  it  up  to  me  before  I was  out  of  bed,  and  I 
made  her  kiss  me  upon  the  strength  of  it.  Then  I rose 
and  dressed,  and  did  n’t  break  the  seal  of  my  letter  till 
I had  breakfasted.  That  is  my  way  of  enjoying  my 
letters.  You  probably  would  not  have  left  your  bed 
till  you  had  read  or  at  least  looked  over  your  treasure. 
I am  glad  of  the  practice  in  arguing  I have  enjoyed  in 
this  place.  It  has  really  been  excellent  in  this  point, 
teaching  me  to  hear  absurdity,  falsehood  and  mischief 
propounded,  in  various  forms,  degrees,  and  modifica- 
tions, and  to  hear  quietly,  and  reply  with  some  measure 
of  patience  and  moderation ; virtues  which,  you  know,  in 
old  times  I was  by  no  means  wont  to  exercise  on  similar 
occasions. 

“ Saturday . Now  I will  tell  you  about  the  party. 
There  were  here — Catherine  Sedgwick,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Minot,  President  Wheeler,  Mr.  Codinan,  Mr.  Martin, 


252 


Susan  Warner 


son  of  the  great  Martin,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ben  Greene, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  (Mayor)  Quincy,  Mr.  Agassiz  the  great 
naturalist,  and  Mr.  Emerson  the  great  schoolmaster, 
and  Mrs.  Howe.  The  people  were  very  pleasant,  so 
was  the  party  of  course.  Mr.  Agassiz  is  a perfectly 
charming  man,  really  most  agreeable  in  his  whole  ap- 
pearance and  manners.  Mr.  Emerson  I did  n’t  fancy. 

“I  enjoyed  myself  pretty  well;  but  Aunty  it  was 
strictly  and  simply  myself  that  I enjoyed ; I did  not  find 
other  people  anythin g particular.  I did  however  enjoy 
my  own  ease,  agreeableness,  and  conversability.  Now 
you  may  laugh  at  me.  But  there  is  truly  a satisfac- 
tion in  finding  myself  so  much  at  home  and  at  my  ease 
in  these  scenes  to  which  I am  comparatively  but  little 
wonted.  Mrs.  B.  says  my  love  of  approbation  is  much 
less  than  my  self-esteem ; so  perhaps  you  have  there  one 
secret  of  my  composure  and  independence.  Don’t  be 
at  all  vexed  at  what  I said  in  the  beginning  of  this  let- 
ter. It  is  all  well,  no  doubt.  I have  been  four  times 
round  the  Common  again  this  morning,  spite  of  the 
wind  and  mist.  Anna  went  with  me  just  half  my  walk. 
I have  missed  you  when  I have  wanted  my  hair  dressed. 
I have  always  done  it  myself  in  my  usual  everyday 
way,  till  last  night  when  Anna  did  it  for  me,  and  well 
too. — Love  to  dear  father. 

“Your  affectionate  Susan.” 

Below  is  this  scrap  in  my  writing. 

‘ ‘ Do  you  want  a word  from  little  A ? Miss  Sue  says 
she  has  been  sober  and  has  not  wished  to  go  out,  but 
she  has  not  looked  sober,  and  "when  she  does  go  out,  she 
gives  general  satisfaction.” 

“ Jan.  25th.  Monday  evening  you  know  where  we 
went.  Were  n’t  you  pleased  to  hear  of  it  ? And  did  n’t 


F ranees  L.  Warner — “ Aunt  F'anny 
Photo  by  F.  Forshew 


UBRMt 

Of  THE 

tVtRSlTV  Of  lUiHr  3 


253 


At  Home  and  Away 

you  chuckle  over  the  thought  of  my  muslin?  It  is 
beautiful  truly,  and  very  nicely  made.  We  were  quite 
sufficiently  dressed,  though  the  party  was  a very  dressy 
one,  many  taking  it  in  their  way  to  a great  ball  at 
another  place.  I enjoyed  myself  again,  Aunty;  how 
could  I help  it  ? I have  not  been  tried  so  in  a long  time ; 
and  to  find  in  myself  so  much  calmness,  self-possession 
and  ease;  whether  going  or  coming  away- — entering  or 
taking  leave — talking  to  strangers  or  standing  quiet 
with  only  my  little  sister  to  talk  to — to  feel  at  home  and 
at  ease,  gratified  me  I confess.  Should  it  not?  Is  n’t 
it  funny,  truly,  that  two  girls  who  have  lived  on  a desert 
island  should  care  so  much  less  about  these  great  people 
than  others  who  have  seen  more  of  them  ? Annie  and  I 
took  things  very  quietly  indeed ; but  how  much  talk  we 
have  heard.  One  lady  came  home  in  a state  of  indig- 
nation against  Mr.  Abbott  Lawrence,  of  which  behold 
the  cause : — she  was  introduced  to  Lord  Elgin,  began  to 
talk,  and  just  as  they  had  got  upon  an  interesting  point, 
up  comes  the  aforesaid  prince  of  the  merchants,  and 
most  unceremoniously  carries  off  Canada’s  new  Gov- 
ernor to  be  introduced  to  Miss  Lyman.  Mrs. ’s 

indignation  and  vexation!  and  another  ‘refused  to  be 
introduced  to  Lord  Elgin  and  the  Honourable  Mr. 
Edgerton,’ — ‘she  had  seen  too  many  real  lords  to  think 
a great  deal  of  them;’  and  Mrs. — * — ‘would  have  refused 
if  she  dared.’  Now  I confess  to  my  ears,  this  is  not 
precisely  the  language  of  indifference  but  of  affectation. 
I had  a good  view  of  Miss  Lyman.  She  is  a handsome 
girl — not  particularly  to  my  taste — not  at  all  equal  to 
Fanny  B.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quincy  both  please  me.  Last 
night  all  went  to  a lecture  but  Mary  and  me ; I thought 
to  have  a nice  evening,  but  alas!  for  human  expecta- 
tions! Mr.  — - came  in,  and  sat  talking  to  Mary; 


254 


Susan  Warner 


and  I,  poor  I,  had  a dolefully  dull  time.  Tonight  we 
are  quietly  at  home,  but  tomorrow  we  have  company 
again. 

“ Friday . A long  argument  yesterday  morning 
about  the  source  of  a Christian’s  peace.  Mrs.  B. 
maintaining  that  it  proceeded  from  a holy  life , and  I on 
the  contrary  insisting  that  though  inseparably  connected 
with  such  a life,  peace  has  its  source  elsewhere ; quoting, 
as  a just  expression  of  my  opinion  on  this  point,  a re- 
mark of  the  Scotch  David  Dickson,  which  I met  with 
the  other  day  in  a little  book: — ‘I  have  taken  all  my 
good  deeds  and  all  my  bad,  and  have  cast  them  to- 
gether in  a heap  before  the  Lord,  and  have  fled  from 
both  to  Jesus  Christ,  and  in  him  I have  sweet  peace.’ 
We  talked  long  and  earnestly — to  little  purpose.  Mrs. 
B.  seemed  inclined  to  say  of  me  what  she  said  Robert 
Hall  said  of  Owen  or  Owen’s  works, — that  he  was  a 
‘continent  of  mud.’  Well- — you  remember  what  I said 
of  mist  and  moonbeams  ? After  the  talk  (but  you  ought 
to  see  how  good-naturedly  I carry  it)  I went  out  alone 
and  in  spite  of  wind  and  cold  went  three  times  round 
the  Common.  Came  home  and  had  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  Lange  play.  He  played  one  of  my  symphon- 
ies, think  of  that.  I have  practised  a good  deal  since  I 
have  been  here,  and  improved  probably.  I enjoy  it. 
We  had  company  in  the  evening — Anna  told  you  who. 
I talked  the  greater  part  of  the  evening  to  Miss  Rebecca 
Reed;  we  were  amazingly  confidential  on  both  sides; 
people  seem  to  think  we  may  be  confided  in,  don’t  they? 
I like  Mr.  Lord  and  his  wife ; they  are  some  of  the  pleas- 
antest people  I have  met  here.  Mr.  Lord  is  sensible 
and  lively,  and  very  agreeable  in  conversation ; with  a 
good  eye,  a pleasant  good  natured  face,  and  an  abun- 
dant flow  of  words  and  matter ; a person  from  whom  one 


255 


At  Home  and  Away 

may  learn  something.  Friday  I did  n’t  go  out  in  the 
morning;  practised  a nice  time.  Hearing  Lange  has 
done  me  good.  (Pronounced  Long-er,)  Wrote — - 

amused  myself  with  the  ‘Battle  of  Life,’  Dickens’, 
you  know.  Read  Foster  to  Mrs.  B.,  which  I like  very 
much  to  do;  but  we  are  constantly  disagreeing.  Mrs. 
Howe  called  after  dinner,  and  asked  us  to  a little  party 
at  her  house. 

“My  pleasantest  times  in  Boston  have  been  in  going 
round  the  Common,  and  in  Mr.  Kirk’s  church.  I feel 
there  as  if  I were  breathing  the  same  atmosphere  I am 
accustomed  to  and  love  at  home. 

“ I am  glad,  decidedly,  that  we  came  hither;  and  I am 
not  at  all  in  a hurry  to  go  away ; and  yet  I have  had  an 
odd  time  of  it.  I seem  to  have  been  brought  to  Boston 
just  to  have  my  character  disciplined ; — at  least  I can’t 
make  out  any  other  purpose  of  it.  I have  been  under 
disciplining  influences,  of  more  than  one  kind ; I hope  I 
shall  be  the  better  in  the  end,  for  I certainly  have  not 
been  the  happier  during  the  process.  There  is  very 
little  of  what  I see  and  hear  that  meets  my  approval. 
I have  been  in  a continuous  string  of  argumentations ; 

and  Mrs. is  a most  unsatisfactory  person  to  argue 

with: — not  particularly  clear-headed,  nor  particularly 
candid,  and  having  besides  marvellous  slight  respect 
for  the  views  and  reasonings  of  her  opponent,  at  least 
when  that  opponent  happens  to  be  I.  She  thinks  I am 
so  narrow-minded;  but  they  give  me  credit  also  for 
being  exceedingly  amiable,  so  you  will  not  suppose  I 
have  been  very  rude  in  supporting  my  opinions,  though 
I have  held  them  so  firmly. 

“Jan.  joth.  My  dearest  father:  It  is  decided  I am 

not  going  to  Mrs.  Howe’s.  I did  think  to  go;  but  Mrs. 
B.  prefers  to  stay  at  home  herself;  and  thought  or 


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Susan  Warner 


knew  my  taste  was  the  same  with  hers  in  this  instance. 
She  opined  there  would  be  scarcely  a creature  there 
that  either  she  or  I would  care  to  see.  Fanny  and  Anna 
therefore  go  to  keep  up  the  credit  of  the  house ; and  Mrs. 
B.  and  I have  the  best  of  it  in  a snug  evening  at  home. 

“The  weather  is  rather  too  windy  to  tempt  abroad 
the  people  who  might  be  inclined  to  make  ‘ swarries  ’ 
of  themselves;  though  indeed  ‘swarries'  will  come,  all 
sorts  of  weather.  I ought  not  to  speak  evil  of  the 
weather,  however,  for  Anna  and  I have  tried  it  this 
afternoon.  After  finishing  the  sheet  to  Aunty  which 
ought  to  have  gone  today  but  did  n’t,  and  after  consid- 
ering the  prospect  of  the  cold,  the  wind,  and  the  walking, 
with  some  measure  of  disinclination  to  encounter  them, 
I finally  determined  on  the  trial,  and  Annie  and  I went 
out.  We  found  it  delightful,  and  made  the  tour  of  the 
Common  twice.  The  clouds  and  the  sky  were  beauti- 
ful ; the  air  fine ; the  wind  enough,  no,  not  quite  enough, 
to  blow  away  all  manner  of  vapour.  How  Anna  and  I 
laughed  as  we  were  obliged  to  scud  before  it  along 
Charles  St.  We  met  a party  coming  the  other  way  in 
the  face  of  the  wind ; I askedAnna  if  it  would  not  be  a 
kindness  to  inform  them  they  could  never  reach  the 
other  end  of  the  street,  but  we  did  not.  We  greatly 
enjoyed  our  vTalk,  and  were  the  better  for  it. 

“ Wednesday.  How  my  writing  lags.  It  is  a rainy, 
rainy,  sloppy  afternoon.  Is  it  possible  we  must  go 
out?  But  wre  are  engaged  to  tea  at  the  B.’s,  to  meet 
‘ Cousin  Mary  H.  ’ Well — we  shall  fulfill  our  destiny,  I 
suppose,  whatever  that  may  be.  I hope  however  that 
‘Cousin  Mary  H’  will  prove  an  enlivener  of  the  party. 
Patter,  patter, — the  drops  of  rain  are  falling  fast  on  the 
puddle  of  wrater  that  lodges  on  the  balcony, — the  pros- 


At  Home  and  Away 


257 


pect  is  discouraging.  I wonder,  if  I do  go,  if  I shall  be 
agreeable.  I won’t  answer  for  it  now.  If  Mrs.  B. 
comes  out  strong  with  her  coffee,  I may  get  bright- 
ened up.  I gave  up  even  trying  to  be  agreeable  the 
other  night  when  Mrs.  Salter  was  here.  I fairly  took 
to  the  sofa  and  sat  quiet,  leaving  the  B’s  to  do  the  en- 
tertaining, which  they  might  well  enough,  seeing  there 
were  only  two  people  to  take  care  of.  Yesterday  was  a 
better  one  than  the  preceding.  I took  a lovely  walk 
round  the  Common  alone.  Four  times  round  I went, 
in  a pleasant  mood  of  mind,  and  enjoying  myself  and 
everything  exceedingly.  Dr.  Edward  Beecher  called 
after  dinner.  Mrs.  B.  and  I had  been,  last  Sunday 
morning,  to  his  church  and  heard  a very  good  discourse. 
How  I enjoyed  it!  To  hear  someone  speak  boldly, 
strongly,  fearlessly,  the  plain  truth  and  in  no  measured 
terms,  after  the  mystifications  to  which  my  ears  have 
been  long  accustomed.  You  must  know  the  sermon 
was  on  the  necessity  of  the  Spirit’s  influence  to  the 
right  interpretation  of  the  four  great  books  of  instruc- 
tion that  were  given  to  us ; namely,  science,  philosophy, 
history,  and  the  Bible;  of  course  very  interesting  to 

Mrs.  B.  I was  pleased  with  his  visit  too.  Mrs. 

sat  and  talked  to  him.  Oh  what  talking!  to  what  shall 
I resemble  it.  It  is  not  easy  to  answer,  impossible  to 
confute  or  well-nigh  impossible,  and  stifling  to  hear. 
Oh,  I do  dislike  it  heartily. 

“Feb.  4th.  Tuesday  evening  Mr.  Agassiz  came  here, 
as  Anna  told  you.  I had  a good  deal  of  pleasure  in  his 
visit.  He  is  very  sensible,  very  agreeable.  How  well 
he  agrees  with  you  and  Dr.  Skinner  in  his  opinion  of 
Animal  Magnetism:  Mrs.  B.  tried  to  pose  him  with  her 
stories;  but  his  calm  incredulity,  and  sensible  way  of 


1 7 


Susan  Warner 


258 

answering  her,  pleased  me  much.  ‘ I studied  this  sub- 
ject5 he  said,  ‘ seven  months;  till  I was  afraid  of  it — till 
I was  frightened!’  Oh  father,  if  one  could  always  live 
with  minds  superior  to  one’s  own!  What  delight  it  is | 
and  how  seldom  one  has  it.  That  sounds  rather  funny, 
I must  confess ; I do  not  mean  that  my  own  mind  is  of  so 
high  an  order  that  few  can  be  found  to  surpass  it ; but 
another  must  be  very  superior  to  make  its  superiority 
immediately  felt ; and  it  is  true  that  in  my  very  limited 
circle  of  acquaintance  I have  not  been  so  happy  as  to 
meet  with  many  such.  And  you  must  have  lived  al- 
most (or  quite)  entirely  without  this  pleasure.  But 
then  when  minds  are  of  a certain  order,  they  do  not  I 
suppose  feel  the  want  of  this  peculiar  stimulating  and 
delighting  influence  of  other  minds.  I am  very  sensible 
that  I have  thought  too  little. 

“Wednesday  evening  we  went  to  Mrs.  B.’s.  There 
our  eyes  were  delighted  with  a great  book  of  fac-similes 
of  Claude’s  sketches.  What  beauties!  and  how  I re- 
joice that  in  the  days  when  we  could  afford  it,  our  taste 
(Anna’s  and  mine)  was  effectually  cultivated.  Now, 
what  sources  of  enjoyment  are  open  to  us;  sources 
which  afford  little  gratification  to  the  majority.  We 
had  true  pleasure  in  that  book  of  sketches.  Then  I 
played  and  gave  pleasure,  if  I might  judge  from  appear- 
ances. A very  satisfactory  evening  on  the  whole 
thanks  to  the  fine  arts.  Thursday  evening  we  went 
to  Mrs.  H.’s.  A nice  family  all  round, — good,  excel- 
lent, nice  people.  Mrs.  R.  is  one  of  the  daughters; 
and  Mr.  R.’s  sister  is  quite  a friend  of  mine.  There 
we  were  entertained  with  most  beautiful  prints  of  fres- 
coes at  Pompeii, — exquisite  things;  the  gracefulness  of 
the  attitudes  is  very  remarkable. 


At  Home  and  Away 


259 

“Feb.  jth.  It  is  now  half  past  nine  in  the  evening. 
Mrs.  B.,  Fanny  and  Anna,  have  gone,  a little  while 
ago,  to  a party  at  Mrs.  D.  B.’s.  I,  being  as  usual  per- 
verse, declined  that  pleasure.  I could  n’t  go;  I would 
not  be  there  now  for  something.  I cannot  go  to 
parties  as  I feel  at  present.  The  idea  is  quite  distaste- 
ful to  me ; and  I will  not  put  such  a force  upon  myself  as 
would  be  necessary  in  order  to  go,  without  some  greater 
inducement  than  I can  now  discern.  Am  I not  right? 
What  in  the  world  should  I gain  by  going?  I enjoy 
some  of  the  company  we  see  at  home.  We  had  a pleas- 
ant little  dinner  party  today;  and  tomorrow  evening 
I believe  we  are  to  have  another  gathering.  Little 
companies,  of  pleasant  people,  I like  very  much. 

“While  they  were  at  the  party  I was  pleasantly 
engaged  with  my  writing,  and  George  Herbert  whom  I 
like  greatly,  and  finally  with  playing,  I don’t  know 
when  I have  played  symphonies  so  much  to  my  satis- 
faction; really  I am  quite  pleased  with  my  perform- 
ances. This  morning  aunty’s  letter,  which  we  were 
indeed  glad  to  get;  so  full  of  matter  too.  Many  thanks 
for  it.  I am  glad  to  hear  you  are  well,  father  and 
aunty,  and  in  good  spirits.  We  are  exceeding  well; 
and  Mrs.  B.  thinks  Anna  has  less  of  her  pensive  look 
than  she  had  when  we  came.  We  have  been  three 
times  round  the  Common  this  morning,  and  enjoyed 
the  walk  and  the  weather  though  other  people  do  not 
speak  well  of  the  latter.  Ah!  everything  depends  on 
one’s  own  mind.  What  shall  I do  for  my  walks  when  I 
go  home  ? I must  keep  them  up ; but  the  thought  of  the 
New  York  streets  is  very  disagreeable  to  me,  after  the 
so  long  enjoyment  of  these.  Well — vogue  la  gal&re! 
I believe  there  is  good  to  be  got  out  of  everything, — 


26o 


Susan  Warner 


even  the  streets  of  New  York,  and  they  are  bad  enough, 
I am  sure.  I hope  M.  and  F.  will  not  write  me  out  of 
their  books  for  saying  so,  but  it  is  true;  there  is  no 
comparison  between  New  York  and  Boston  in  their 
external  influences.  I like  Boston  greatly  better  than 
New  York;  I like  it  very  much  indeed.” 


CHAPTER  XIV 


SCHEMING 

It  may  have  been  the  next  year  that  a very  daring 
project  sprang  up  one  night  from  the  midst  of  the  fire 
shine.  We,  that  is  three  fourths  of  us,  were  spending 
the  winter  at  home  on  the  Island,  for  economy’s  sake, 
while  my  father  handled  his  law  cases  in  town.  He 
had  almost  given  up  his  profession,  after  removing  to 
the  Highlands ; but  now,  under  stress,  was  trying  to  get 
back  again  into  law  practice : a hard  matter  at  his  age, 
and  with  the  much  changed  and  changing  courts  and 
methods.  Very  little  money  came  in,  that  winter, 
from  any  source.  I was  weak  and  forlorn ; and  the 
others  had  far  too  much  to  do.  The  edge  of  things  is  a 
difficult  place  sometimes.  That  evening  I lay  on  a 
couch  in  the  firelight,  my  sister  sitting  by,  and  talk  over 
ways  and  means  had  passed  into  silent  thinking. 

“ I believe  I could  make  a game  of  Natural  History!” 
said  I suddenly,  raising  myself  on  one  elbow  (games 
were  prevalent  that  year).  “ I am  sure  I could.  With 
a set  of  cards,  and  a book  to  tell  about  the  animals.  I 
could  write  the  book,  and  paint  the  cards.” 

“And  you  might  call  it  Robinson  Crusoe’s  Farm- 
yard!” 

No  sooner  said  than  at  least  begun.  My  sister  went 
round  from  case  to  case,  gathering  up  natural  history 
books,  and  brought  them  to  where  I lay  by  the  fire; 
and  we  chose  our  animals  without  delay.  O what  fun! 
When  Aunt  Fanny  came  in,  we  told  her. 

261 


262 


Susan  Warner 


There  should  be  twenty-four  cards  in  the  pack,  with 
tame  and  wild  animals  judiciously  mingled ; and  the  cat 
should  be  taken  from  the  portrait  of  one  of  our  pussies 
which  I had  painted ; she  lying  peacefully  upon  a bit  of 
velvet  carpet  from  our  old  town  house. 

My  father  brought  me  from  New  York  a pack  of 
large  white  cards ; and  very  carefully  I drew  and  painted 
the  various  beasts ; each  card  being  inscribed  with  the 
proper  number  of  questions,  the  answers  whereto  were 
to  be  learned  from  the  little  book.  And  in  process  of 
time  the  book  itself  was  written : but  if  all  writers  were 
as  careful  of  their  facts  as  I was  then,  the  face  of  the 
world  would  take  on  some  new  features,  and  there 
would  be  fewer  books. 

We  were  not  this  time  to  test  the  adage:  “Nine 
tenths  is  just  half  way”;  for  the  little  venture  went 
swimmingly  on;  and  after  one  or  two  checks  was  safely 
moored  at  155  Broadway — the  old  store  of  Mr.  George 
P.  Putnam.  But  (humanly  speaking)  I never  can 
guess  what  made  Mr.  Putnam  take  it  in.  Unless  that 
he  who  had  so  many  dear  children  of  his  own,  felt 
something  of  the  pathos  there  was  about  it  all;  the 
girl’s  poor  effort,  in  her  father’s  hand. 

Book  and  game  were  accepted;  and  that  we  might 
earn  the  more,  it  was  arranged  that  we  should  colour 
the  cards,  at  so  much  the  sheet. 

Meantime,  another  plan  came  up.  I wish  I could 
give  exact  dates ; but  the  separate  days  and  months  of 
that  ‘ ‘Robinson  Crusoe”  winter  seem  all  merged  in  the 
general  hard  pressure.  And  I was  working  all  I could, 
and  besides  having  headaches  fit  to  confuse  anybody. 
Yet  I think  this  was  an  evening  early  in  March. 

Tea  was  over  in  what  we  still  call  “the  old  room”; 
(no  older  than  some  of  the  others,  but  with  perhaps 


Scheming  263 

less  effort  to  look  young :)  and  my  Aunt  Fanny  stood 
washing  up  the  cups  and  saucers,  while  my  sister  was 
near  by,  towel  in  hand.  And  it  had  doubtless  been 
one  of  my  headache  days;  for  I sat  idly  at  the  other 
comer  of  the  hearth,  watching  the  two  dear  figures 
about  their  work.  The  room  was  very  still  and  full  of 
thoughts.  Then  Aunt  Fanny  spoke. 

“Sue,  I believe  if  you  would  try,  you  could  write  a 
story.”  Whether  she  added  “that  would  sell,”  I am 
not  sure;  but  of  course  that  was  what  she  meant. 
From  the  early  days  of  her  own  self-confidence,  no  one 
of  us  had  ever  questioned  my  darling’s  power  to  do 
anything  she  chose. 

My  sister  made  no  answer.  But  as  she  finished  wip- 
ing the  dishes,  and  went  back  and  forth  to  put  them 
away,  the  first  dim,  far-off  notion  of  the  “Wide,  Wide 
World  ” came  into  her  head.  Very  misty  at  first,  very 
brief;  hardly  going  beyond  the  one  thought  of  a deso- 
late child  tossed  out  upon  the  world;  but  I think  the 
opening  words  were  written  that  very  night.  No  won- 
der she  began  with  a lawsuit ! 

“ Still  as  I pulled,  it  came,”  wrote  Bunyan : and  much 
in  that  way  the  story  grew.  Once  beginning  she  could 
not  stop.  She  was  never  a true  schemer  in  her  writing ; 
and  when  she  had  “hooked”  Mr.  Van  Brunt,  or  Phile- 
tus,  knew  as  little  I fancy  as  any  ’prentice  angler,  what 
sort  of  a fish  she  should  bring  to  land.  But  neither 
was  there  any  delay  or  hesitation ; characters,  incidents, 
words,  came  at  her  call, — often  stood  at  her  elbow, 
waiting  their  chance. 

With  her  native  love  of  stories,  this  was  entrancing 
work : imaginary  scenes  unrolling  before  her  eyes,  and 
strange  figures  passing  and  re-passing,  even  when  her 
hands  were  busy  with  the  most  prosaic  things.  They 


264 


Susan  Warner 


could  not  bind  her  thoughts:  and  often,  often,  I have 
seen  her  smile  to  herself — even  laugh — at  some  queer 
speech  or  image  which  had  suddenly  walked  in. 

One  point  about  that  book  (as  indeed  in  all  she  ever 
wrote)  it  is  hard  to  explain  to  those  who  know  not  such 
springs  of  life  and  action.  For  it  was  written  in  closest 
reliance  upon  God:  for  thoughts,  for  power,  and  for 
words.  Not  the  mere  vague  wish  to  write  a book  that 
should  do  service  to  her  Master:  but  a vivid,  constant, 
looking  to  him  for  guidance  and  help : the  worker  and 
her  work  both  laid  humbly  at  the  Lord’s  feet.  In  that 
sense,  the  book  was  written  upon  her  knees:  and  the 
Lord’s  blessing  has  followed  it,  dowm  to  this  day.  How 
many  of  whom  even  I have  heard,  trace  their  heart 
conversion  straight  to  that  blessing  on  the  pages  of  the 
“Wide,  Wide  World.’’ 

People  have  thought  that  I helped  write  it, — but  no : 
not  by  a single  word : and  the  only  portrait  is  the  cat. 
The  title  I did  give — later, — naming  her  first  book,  as 
she  named  mine.  When  the  story  was  fairly  on  its  way, 
her  own  impatience  and  ours  made  her  give  us  a taste : 
first  Aunt  Fanny,  and  then  I,  held  some  of  the  precious 
sheets  in  hand ; my  father,  I think,  not  quite  so  soon. 

“How  do  you  like  it?”  Aunt  Fanny  asked  me  pri- 
vately: but  I think  that  was  something  which  at  first 
we  neither  of  us  could  tell.  It  was  all  so  strange  and 
confusing;  this  other  world  which  she  had  conjured  up. 
Of  course  we  liked  it;  but  how,  or  how  much,  it  was 
hard  just  then  to  say.  Before  long  we  knew.  She 
never  let  us  read  quite  up  to  where  she  was  writing,  but 
at  a safe  respectful  distance  we  followed  eagerly  on. 
And  how  I,  who  never  cry  over  books,  cried  over  the 
pages  of  Alice’s  sickness  and  death,  can  never  be  told. 
I was  sick  myself  that  summer;  nervous  and  run  down; 


Scheming  265 

and  the  thought  took  possession  of  me  that  my  darling 
had  written  those  pages  to  gently  prepare  me  for  her 
going.  No  one  knew  it:  but  in  secret  I half  wept  my 
heart  away.  Ah  when  the  real  time  came,  I could 
shed  no  tears. 

The  book  was  written  partly  at  the  Island  and  partly 
in  town;  and  was  finished,  I should  say,  in  little  over 
one  year.  Written — not  published.  The  work  when 
at  home  was  steady  and  close;  but  some  visits  away 
came  in  to  interfere ; though  doubtless  livelier  scenes 
kept  her  spirits  fresh  and  rested,  and  so  were  really  a 
help. 

11  New  York,  Ap.  5th,  1848.  My  darling  Annie,  I 
should  very  much  like  to  get  a letter  from  you ; I shall 
look  a little  for  it  tomorrow.  If  you  have  sent  to  the 
post  office  today  you  have  or  ought  to  have  received 
one  of  very  remarkable  length  from  me.' 

“Apr.  yth.  Thus  far  on  Wednesday  evening,  when 
in  walked  Mr.  Platt  of  agreeable  memory.  For  him  I 
played,  to  him  I talked,  a little;  (Charlotte  was  out) 
— Mrs.  Codwise,  who  was  sadly  sleepy,  entreating  me 
aside  to  do  so ; for  they  had  got  upon  a religious  theme 
which  in  her  somniferous  state  she  did  not  feel  herself 
equal  to  pursue,  nor  did  we  pursue  it  long.  But 
there  was  no  more  writing  that  evening.  And  yester- 
day, O the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs! — I spent 
where  of  all  places  I might  little  have  expected  to 
spend  it. 

“Tuesday  was  partly  rainy.  I did  not  go  out. 
Sat  and  sewed  with  Charlotte,  in  Mrs.  Cod  wise’s  sitting- 
room  part  of  the  morning  and  afternoon,  telling  not  a 
few  absurdities,  and  laughing  accordingly.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  Lizzie  (a  little  girl  in  the  house)  amused  me 
with  telling  characters.  Declaring  herself  to  be  a good 


266 


Susan  Warner 


judge  of  character,  Lizzie  then  undertook  to  tell  mine, 
which  it  may  amuse  you  to  hear.  I asked  if  I was 
deceitful — no,  I was  very  truthful. — How  did  she  know  ? 
— O she  knew ; — and  here  is  the  short  and  the  long  of 
her  revelation. — ‘ You  are  very  truthful,  you  are  not 
deceitful  at  all ; you  are  very  amiable  and  affable,  which 
is  the  same  thing;  you  are  very  pious;  and  you  are 
oftentimes  inclined  to  sadness.’ — Do  you  recognise  the 
picture  my  dear?  Rather  strong  as  to  colouring,  is  it 
not?  But  she  told  me  your  character  too.  You  are  a 
sweet  retiring  violet,  hidden  in  the  shade,  and  your 
beauties  are  not  seen  till  some  one  goes  and  pulls  open 
the  green  leaves,  and  then  they  shine  out.  Well  how 
will  that  do?  I suppose  / am  a great  tiger  lily,  leaving 
no  one  that  passes  by  in  any  doubt  about  my  spots. 

“Mrs.  Codwise  affirms  it  is  so  pleasant  to  have  me 
here ; wishes  she  could  have  me  with  her  always.  But 
do  you  know,  darling,  that  work  gets  on  slowly. 
Sad  to  say,  I have  not  touched  Ellen  this  week.  Writ- 
ing such  voluminous  letters,  you  must  be  aware, 
takes  up  no  little  time ; and  then  sewing,  and  then  other 
engagements.  Perhaps  I shall  contrive  to  do  better 
next  week,  but  I don’t  know.  I have  n’t  finished  my 
dress  yet ; — hope  to  to-day  (Saturday) : — have  n’t 
touched  my  petticoat  waist;  but  for  the  matter  of  that 
the  petticoat  is  not  forthcoming.  I don’t  want  to  sit 
here  now,  writing  to  you.  I have  so  much  else  that  I 
want  to  do;  and  yet  I am  unwilling  to  stop  with  so 
much  room  unfilled ; as  for  saying  all  I have  to  say,  that 
will  not  be  in  this  sheet  I think.  Mr.  S.  did  me  a great 
deal  of  good  last  Sunday;  but  Henry  Martyn  says  true, 
‘How  short-lived  are  right  affections!’  Yet  the  flash 
of  light  that  reveals  clearly  for  a moment  the  features 
of  a landscape  is  of  unspeakable  use;  for  though  the 


Scheming 


267 


illumination  may  all  pass  away,  one  can  remember 
where  the  road  lies,  and  pursue  it,  though  darkling. 
Do  not  let  father  or  aunty  work  too  hard ; do  remind 
them  what  life  is  good  for,  as  far  I mean  as  its  enjoy- 
ment is  concerned,  and  not  let  them  1 se  faire  miserable 
en  travaillant  pour  etre  heureux.'  It  is  great  folly. 
And  what  are  you  doing?  my  ‘hidden  violet’?  Tell 
me  as  much  as  you  can.  I am  glad  Cup  and  Saucer 
manifested  so  much  satisfaction  at  their  restoration  to 
good  society.  How  pleasant  it  must  be  to  see  the 
dear  little  things.  (You  know  I ‘don’t  like  cats.’) 
“Write  as  much  as  is  pleasant  to  you  to  write;  talk 
to  me.  Mrs.  Cod  wise  has  just  run  through  Jane  Eyre. 
Do  you  know  she  says  I am  so  much  like  her,  and 
wanted  to  know  if  you  did  not  think  so.  I did  not  tell 
her  that  I thought  so,  but  I do,  as  you  know.” 

The  next  letter  shews  a most  unchanged  character 
in  all  its  natural  traits  and  whimseys. 

“Apr.  10th.  My  Dear  Annie,  I left  off  with  Wed- 
nesday evening.  Where  do  you  think  I spent  the  next 
day?  I had  not  then  myself  the  slightest  idea;  and  if 
anybody  had  told  me  that  my  Thursday’s  dinner  or 
lunch  would  be  cut  for  me  by  Capt.  Howland  of  the 
Ashburton,  and  eaten  on  board  of  that  packet,  she 
being  at  the  time  beyond  the  Narrows  and  standing 
out  to  sea, — the  making  known  the  prophecy  might 
have  been,  as  on  other  occasions,  its  own  overthrowing. 
So  it  was  however.  Miss  Green  very  kindly  came  to 
ask  me  if  I would  like  to  go  down  and  see  the  Ash- 
burton ; and  as  I was  a great  ignoramus  in  such  matters 
I thought  best  to  accept;  not  that  I expected  any  re- 
markable enjoyment.  Miss  Elizabeth  and  I ‘bussed’ 
it  down  to  Nassau  St.  Mr.  William  Mitchell  met  us  and 
we  proceeded  to  the  wharves  to  find  our  ship.  I was 


268 


Susan  Warner 


interested  on  the  way  to  see  the  head  of  the  ‘ Panama  ’ ; 
quite  a large  ship  it  was.  We  first  mounted  on  the  deck 
of  the  ‘ Sir  Robert  Peel,*  and  there  it  was  necessary  to 
wait  till  the  steamboat  should  be  ready  which  was  to 
take  us  to  the  Ashburton,  then  lying  a little  off  in  the 
East  River.  We  waited  a good  while ; the  company  on 
deck  receiving  from  time  to  time  accessions  to  their 
number;  but  as  I had  no  friends  there  in  whom  I was 
interested,  nor  expected  to  see  any,  it  was  rather  a dull 
scene  for  me.  Mr.  Isaac  Roosevelt  renewed  my  ac- 
quaintance seemingly  with  pleasure,  but  really  there 
was  not  much  pleasure  on  my  part.  He  had  thus  far 
accompanied  five  of  the  Bolton  family  who  were  going 

out  in  the  Ashburton.  The  three  Miss ’s  and  their 

brother  also  in  due  time  made  their  appearance,  but 
neither  did  their  arrival  afford  me  much  gratification. 
At  length  came  the  word  that  the  steamboat  was  ready, 
and  descending  from  our  high  station  we  went  on  board. 
A most  miserable  little  vessel, — one  of  the  smallest 
and  poorest  I ever  was  on.  And  for  the  finishing 
touch,  what  do  I hear?  We  are  going  out  to  the  Hook 
and  shall  not  be  back  until  seven  o’clock.  My  whole 
day  gone! — and  not  a soul  with  me  whose  face  I cared 
to  see,  and  I afraid  besides.  Not  back  till  seven 
o’clock!  And  how  do  I know  but  the  weather  may 
change  before  that  ? We  may  have  a blow — a thunder- 
storm! Annie  I have  not  felt  in  a good  while  such 
chagrin.  And  there  within  a few  rods  of  me,  lay  the 
wharves  where  I would  give  so  much  to  be, — within  a 
few  rods ; but  I must  go  all  the  way  out  to  the  Hook, 
and  take  my  chance  of  coming  back,  before  I set  foot 
there  again.  Well,  this  is  a lesson  for  next  time.  It 
was  some  comfort  that  we  mounted  immediately  to 
the  deck  of  the  Ashburton;  we  were  pretty  safe  while 


Scheming 


269 


on  board  of  her  it  was  plain.  Time  passed  as  it  might 
for  a while,  as  we  were  slowly  plodding  along  to  the 
Narrows.  I went  down  and  viewed  the  cabins  and 
state-rooms — alas!  what  miserable  places  to  be  sick  in. 
I did  n’t  care  to  stay  down  there ; but  what  could  I do 
on  deck?  Miss entre  nous , is  not  particularly  con- 
genial to  me,  and  the  conversation  of  young  Mrs. 

was  still  less  interesting.  I did  make  shift  to  occupy  my 
eyes  and  attention  for  a while  with  the  sailors,  when 
they  went  aloft  to  loosen  the  sails ; I never  had  so  good  a 
view  of  them  before ; and  wonderful  it  was  to  see  them 
far  up  lying  across  the  yards,  head  and  arms  on  one  side 
busy  with  the  ropes, — the  feet  on  the  other,  supported 
to  be  sure  by  the  rope  or  thong  which  appears  as  if  it 
were  run  through  staples  on  the  underside  of  the  yard 
arm,  from  one  side  to  the  other.  About  two  o’clock 
came  another  diversion  in  the  shape  of  a cold  col- 
lation. To  enjoy  this  we  descended  into  the  cabin, 
where  having  with  some  difficulty  procured  seats, 

Miss  regaled  herself  with  a pretty  substantial 

repast,  and  I munched  a slice  of  cold  beef  and 
some  bread  and  butter, — all  very  good  however. 
Champagne  was  there,  but  I refused  it;  though  I did 
think  at  one  time  of  taking  some;  but  I changed  my 
mind.  ‘Shine  like  the  sun  in  every  comer,’  say  George 
Herbert  and  Mr.  Sprole.  Ah  I wish  I did!  But  I was 
temperate  in  the  cabin  of  the  Ashburton.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  after  that  but  to  munch  sea  biscuit, 
listen  to  people’s  talk,  and  let  the  hours  pass  by  as 
they  might.  As  for  enjoying  myself,  I was  not  in 
the  mood  for  that,  or  rather  not  in  the  company.  I 
do  not  know  what  o’clock  it  was  when  the  steamboat 
bell  rang  for  the  ‘friends’  to  leave  the  packet;  but 
I know  I was  glad  to  hear  it.  We  left  her;  but  still 


270 


Susan  Warner 


we  kept  going  farther  and  farther  out  to  sea.  How 
I wished  the  packet  would  cast  us  off  and  let  us  go 
home!  Do  you  remember  the  blue  line  of  the  Nave- 
sink  hills?  Far  to  the  right,  beyond  Gravesend? 
We  were  quite  out  beyond  those;  how  far  beyond 
them  I don’t  know;  but  fairly  out  at  sea.  I have 
seen  sea  water,  and  know  how  beautifully  green  it 
can  look.  Most  happily  for  me  the  weather  had 
continued  exceeding  fine;  the  water  was  perfectly 
quiet,  not  even  enough  of  a ground  swell  to  disturb 
anything;  though  we  could  discern  a very  gentle, 
slow  undulating  movement  of  the  packet  after  we 
left  her.  And  we  left  her  at  last.  The  captain  lifted 
his  hat  from  his  head,  and  the  men  cheered ; and  then 
the  Ashburton  stood  entirely  off  to  sea,  and  we  turned 

about  and  rapidly  left  her  behind.  Miss  and 

I took  seats  on  the  lower  deck,  and  there  we  stayed 
most  of  the  time  till  we  reached  New  York,  some- 
times talking,  sometimes  indulging  ourselves  and  each 
other  with  silence.  It  was  a very,  very  long  time 
before  we  passed  the  Narrows  again.  I felt  as  if  we 
should  be  tolerably  near  home  were  we  but  arrived 
at  them.  The  afternoon  was  of  the  most  beautiful, 
and  when  we  had  passed  the  Narrows,  and  indeed 
before,  the  lighting  and  colouring  of  the  Long  Island 
shore  towards  which  we  were  looking,  was  very  fair 
and  lovely.  But  how  to  enjoy  it,  with  nobody  but 

Miss  near,  and  my  uppermost  wish  to  reach 

New  York!  We  landed  at  the  Battery  and  she  and 

I and  Mr.  walked  all  the  way  home.  Trinity 

Church  struck  seven,  a few  minutes  after  we  had  passed 
it.  Mr.  Wadsworth  in  the  evening. 

“Friday  Mrs.  C.  and  I went  down  to  Staten  Island. 
We  carried  a little  basket  of  provisions,  and  Mrs. C.  took 


Scheming  271 

Jane  Eyre,  deep  in  which  she  was,  poor  woman,  all  day. 
I took  a roll  of  paper  and  my  pen.  ‘ Bussed’  it  to  White- 
hall; then  the  sail  down.  Another  beautiful  day,  only 
more  wind;  but  the  air,  out  of  New  York,  was  very 
sweet  and  fresh.  Here  again  I was  not  going  exactly 
for  my  own  pleasure,  but  as  I was  not  going  out  to 
sea,  I could  get  along  very  well  with  all  the  rest. 
Found  the  cottage  in  disorder,  furniture  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room;  dusty  and  cold.  Mrs.  C.  and 
I set  things  in  their  places;  then  she  went  out  to  see 
one  of  her  neighbours;  Sam,  the  black  man,  made  a 
fire,  and  I having  made  interest  for  a duster  in  the 
shape  of  a coarse  towel,  so  far  mended  matters  in  the 
parlour  that  I could  sit  down  in  some  semblance  of 
comfort.  Mrs.  C.  came  back;  she  went  to  Jane  Eyre 
which  she  declared  ‘horrid,’  because  so  interesting, — 
and  I went  to  my  writing.  A good  part  of  your  last 
letter  was  there  accomplished,  between  times;  for  we 
took  a little  walk  before  dinner,  and  another  after; 
But  Mrs.  Cod  wise  was  in  for  it  with  her  book,  and 
fresh  air  and  country  scenes  invited  her  in  vain.  I 
had  the  more  time  for  writing.  The  woman  in  the 
house  made  us  some  tea,  and  boiled  a couple  of  eggs 
apiece;  Mrs.  C.  bought  a fresh  loaf  at  the  Island,  and 
we  had  taken  with  us  a basket  of  bread  and  butter, 
cold  ham  and  veal,  and  apple-sauce,  so  we  dined  very 
well.  Our  last  walk  was  delayed  too  long;  Mrs.  C. 
suddenly  discerned  the  boat  at  the  dock,  and  then 
came  a great  hurry  to  get  on  board  of  her, — it  was 
the  five  o’clock  boat,  and  the  last  one,  and  neither 
of  us  would  have  cared  to  stay  over  the  night  in  the 
desolate  cottage.  As  I could  run  better  than  Mrs.  C. 
I was  despatched  into  the  house  to  bring  away  Jane 
and  the  spectacles.  I seized  them,  and  my  own 


272 


Susan  Warner 


paper  and  pen,  and  I followed  Mrs.  C.  as  best  I might. 
But  I was  exceeded;  I was  obliged  to  cease  running 
and  walk,  at  whatever  risk;  human  nature  could  no 
faster  go,  under  all  the  press  of  motive  that  was  bear- 
ing upon  it.  We  did,  however,  reach  the  boat  in 
time.  As  Mrs.  C.  was  afraid  of  catching  the  ship 
fever  from  some  poor  Irish  in  the  cabin,  we  sat  on 
deck  towards  the  west;  and  Mrs.  C.  being  perfectly 
absorbed  in  her  book  I had  a lovely  quiet  time,  during 
the  sail  home.  The  bright  sunlight,  the  fresh,  pure 
breeze,  the  little  rolling  waves  of  the  bay, — what  a 
fair  picture  it  was;  and  I sat  gazing  and  musing. 
I don’t  know,  by  the  way,  how  profitable  this  kind 
of  musing  is, — where  memory  furnishes  material  which 
imagination  takes  and  holds  up  to  view  in  pleasant 
lights,  rejoicing  mightily  in  her  own  work.” 

‘ ‘ I received  two  of  your  letters.  Thank  you  darling ; 
write  me  still  as  much  as  you  can.  I am  sorry  poor 
little  Muff  is  dead ; I should  have  liked  to  see  and  pat 
her  again  first.  I was  ‘touched’  as  Fanny  Bruen 
would  say,  when  I opened  your  little  box,  and  saw 
your  own  collar  so  nicely  done  up  and  trimmed  for 
me  by  your  own  dear  hands.  Oh  thank  you,  love. 
I will  wear  it  with  great  pleasure;  it  is  just  what  I 
want  for  my  silk  dress.” 

liAp.  14th.  That  night,  darling,  I sat  up  till  twelve 
o’clock  or  near  it  writing  to  you.  I went  up  to  my 
room  by  ten,  and  unwilling  your  letter  should  be  de- 
layed beyond  the  next  day,  I resolved  that  Mrs.  C.’s 
sperm  candle  should  bum  for  it,  and  I watch.  And 
I am  glad  I did;  if  you  were  ‘ravenous’  on  Wednesday, 
what  must  you  be  by  Friday?  It  is  a grievous  thing 
that  I cannot  write  Ellen;  but  it  is  difficult  to  get 
these  enormous  despatches  to  you  off  my  hands.  Mrs. 


Scheming  273 

Codwise  has  a terrible  fancy  for  taking  me  out  with 
her,  and  I am  fain  to  comply. 

“After  dinner  we  sat  awhile  in  the  parlour,  I hem- 
ming handkerchiefs,  and  Charlotte  reading  aloud,  in 
Proverbial  Philosophy,  which  she  requested  me  to 
accept  from  her,  having  had,  as  she  said,  two  copies 
given  her.  Was  n’t  that  pretty  ? She  gave  me  great 
pleasure,  and  I told  her  so.  Can’t  you  send  her  a 
bunch  of  flowers,  my  violet?  Mrs.  C.  took  not  a little 
pains  to  get  her  some  when  we  were  at  Staten  Island, 
but  owing  to  our  hurry  we  left  them  behind.  Don’t 
you  think  one  of  the  Leslies  came  here  one  afternoon 
when  I was  out,  to  ask  me  to  go  with  them  to  see  a 
packet  the  next  day.  Many  thanks,  my  friend,  but 
no  more  packets' for  me! 

“I  went  to  Mrs.  Few’s  prayer-meeting  with  Mrs.  C. 
and  after  that  took  a walk.  This  evening  Mr.  Platt 
came  in,  and  leaving  him  to  Charlotte,  who  had  got 
out  the  chess  board  to  play  with  me,  Mrs.  C.  came  to 
it  herself,  and  we  had  a very  nice  game.  Then  Char- 
lotte and  I had  a little  more  talking  and  laughing, 
and  then  we  came  upstairs.  And  it  is  drawing  to- 
wards eleven,  and  the  last  day  of  the  week  is  near 
its  last  hour.  Well,  a good  night  to  you,  and  sweet 
rest,  and  a bright  morrow;  and  may  the  dew  of  heaven 
fall  upon  my  violet’s  head,  and  cause  it  to  breathe 
better  perfume  from  day  to  day. 

“Miss  Green  asked  me  this  afternoon  how  long  I 
was  going  to  stay,  and  said  Mrs.  C.  said  she  intended 
to  keep  me  as  long  as  she  can.  That ’s  all  very  pleas- 
ant, but  never  fear.  Only  let  me  have  the  money 
to  do  my  business,  and  you  will  be  very  apt  to  see 
me  one  of  these  days.  Why  this  won’t  do,  to  go  on 
without  writing  Ellen,  and  I can’t  get  at  her  very  well.” 

18 


Susan  Warner 


274 

Saturday  Morning.  “Darling  Annie.  Father  came 
this  morning  with  your  beautiful  bunch  of  flowers, 
which  pleased  me  not  a little,  and  to  all  appearance 
pleased  Charlotte  too ; for  those,  and  your  and  Aunty’s 
kind  speeches  about  her  visiting  us,  she  sends  love 
and  sundry  acknowledgements. 

“Thank  you,  dear  Annie,  for  your  sweet  letters, 
telling  me  precisely  pre-cise-ly  what  I like  to  hear. 
And  Oh  forgive  me  that  in  return  I send  you  only 
this  shabby  little  note.  Charlotte  keeps  me  com- 
pany sometimes  in  the  morning,  and  I do  not  like  to 
say  no  when  she  invites  me  to  her  room,  and  I cannot 
say  no  when  she  invites  herself  to  mine.  And  in  the 
after  part  of  the  day  I cannot  so  well  write  for  various 
reasons. 

“I  shall  I trust  see  you  next  week.  I would  fain 
come  before  the  Skinners,  but  if  not  shall  probably 
come  with  them;  it  must  depend  on  father’s  move- 
ments. I feel  as  if  it  would  be  pleasant  to  be  at  home 
again.  But  I am  very  glad  of  my  stay  here.  It  has 
been  very  pleasant,  and  I think  it  does  me  good  to 
be  alone.  Still  the  thought  of  home  comes  over  me 
pleasantly.  I have  an  invitation  to  a party  Monday 
evening,  but  as  I am  an  utter  stranger  to  all  con- 
cerned, it  is  doubtful  whether  I shall  think  it  worth 
while  to  go.  A word  would  decide  me  either  way. 

“ Oh  how  Mrs.  C.  has  been  praising  us  this  morning 
to  Mrs.  Washington!  It ’s  unspeakable.  But  she 
means  it  all.  I like  Mrs.  Washington  very  much. 

“ I ’ll  give  you  more  details  in  a letter.  I ’ll  do  what 
I can  with  your  commissions,  getting  the  little  things 
and  leaving  some  of  the  great  things  if  necessary. 
Good-by,  sweet  Annie;  have  patience  till  Tuesday 
for  more  of  my  Journal.  By  the  way  what  do  you 


Scheming  275 

think  of  spirits  meeting?  Does  not  mine  embrace 
yours?  Do  I not  feel  the  breath  of  love  from  your 
lips? 

“ I am  glad  aunty  has  a girl  at  last.  Do  not  let  her 
do  too  much,  pray  do  not!  I mean  aunty,  not  the 
girl. 

“A  most  shabby  return  for  your  dear  letters.  But 
take  it,  such  as  it  is;  forgive  me  and  wait.  A little 
longer  and  I hope  I shall  see  you.  Susan.” 

“ Tuesday  morning  Ap.  18th.  Sunday,  with  us,  was 
a most  lovely  day.  I went  down  with  Mrs.  C.  to 
hear  Dr.  Alexander.  I liked  Dr.  Alexander ; admirable 
clear  sense,  and  very  evangelical ; but  I cannot  tell  from 
one  sermon  whether  he  could  ever  be  one  of  those 
preachers  who  please  me  best.  He  lacks,  I should 
think,  the  lighting-up  face,  and  the  impressive  de- 
livery, but  perhaps  the  excellence  of  his  matter  would 
make  amends. 

“This  morning  I sat  down  to  write  to  you,  but 
Charlotte  came  in  to  sit  with  me,  so  I put  away  my 
papers  and  mended  my  gloves  instead.  But  we  had 
a good  deal  of  talk  about  different  things;  how  to 
learn  to  write  French  by  one’s  self,  among  others. 
There  I was  entirely  an  fait , and  gave  her,  I knew, 
some  good  directions.  Then  she  proposed  we  should 
go  down  to  the  Art  Union  and  see  Cole’s  pictures, 
which  we  did.  Very  kind  of  her,  for  she  had  been 
already  twice  before.  I was  much  pleased  to  see 
them;  but  I liked  but  two  or  three  landscapes:  the 
Voyage  of  Life,  and  the  Cross  and  the  World,  another 
allegorical  set  of  paintings,  did  not  please  me  much. 
And  as  to  the  rest,  there  was  generally  too  much  glare 
and  brilliancy,  too  much  green  and  red  and  blue,  a 
want  of  masses  of  shadow;  the  atmosphere  too  clear, 


276 


Susan  Warner 


and  distant  outlines  too  hard.  My  taste  has  been 
formed  upon  a different  model.  In  the  ‘Cross  and 
the  World/  he  has  painted  the  path  to  the  former 
as  terribly  rough  and  painful,  while  the  rising  sun 
illumines  a very  fair  landscape  on  the  side  of  the 
World.  I have  settled  that  perhaps  he  was  a Pusey- 
ite, — and  then  that  accounts  for  it. 

“I  wonder  if  I shall  write  you  another  letter.  If 
I only  had  my  money!” — 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  TURNING  TIDE 

Of  the  rest  of  that  year  I find  little  record;  nor 
do  I remember  much.  Only  I think  the  word  “pres- 
sure” pretty  well  covers  the  ground:  yet  it  was  pres- 
sure half  glorified  by  the  love  and  courage  with  which 
it  was  met.  The  old  dike  suits  and  troubles  were 
all  disposed  of,  except  as  to  results:  the  lost  money 
never  came  back  to  us.  But  my  father  was  patiently 
re-building,  as  fast  as  he  could;  checked  every  now 
and  then  by  some  wild  easterly  storm  and  high  tide, 
which  damaged  the  half-finished  embankment.  Aunt 
Fanny  had  once  said  that  my  father  “ought  to  be 
knighted  and  put  in  The  Penny  Magazine,  for  his 
wonderful  courage  and  fortitude,” — and  she  was  just 
such  another  hero  herself. 

My  sister  was  still  hard  at  work  on  her  book  when 
the  spring  of  1849  began  to  open  its  buds  of  promise; 
bringing  also  new  clouds  for  us.  My  father  had 
fought  bravely  against  the  threatened  trouble,  but 
this  time  the  battle  was  to  the  strong.  God  had 
special  work  for  us  to  do,  and  we  were  in  training: 
and  so,  as  the  spring  days  went  on,  we  knew  that  a 
large  portion  of  our  best-loved  household  treas- 
ures must  go  for  an  unjust  debt.  “The  law  allows 
it,  and  the  court  awards  it.” 

But  it  was  one  of  those  cases  where  human  law 
covers  a grievous  wrong. 


277 


278 


Susan  Warner 


By  a bit  of  chicanery,  certain  men  got  hold  of  a 
mortgage  on  some  city  lots  which  my  father  still 
held.  This  they  foreclosed,  at  a season  when  most 
buyers  were  out  of  town,  and  my  father  away;  bought 
in  the  property  themselves  for  less  than  the  face  of 
the  mortgage  (it  being  worth  much  more),  turned 
about,  and  sued  my  father  on  the  bond.  Crippled 
by  his  old  losses,  he  could  not  meet  this  new  demand: 
it  was  a time  of  great  business  depression;  and  wTe 
were  “the  wheel  going  down  hill”  which  is  apt  to 
distance  its  friends. 

Such  was  the  shadow  creeping  over  our  home  that 
spring:  when  would  the  cloud  burst? — we  could  not 
tell.  I think  it  was  during  those  very  months  that 
my  sister  worked  so  untiringly  at  her  book;  spending 
hour  after  hour  in  the  solitary  room  upstairs,  in  a 
maze  of  joy  and  solace;  and  coming  down  to  common 
things  with  far-away  eyes  and  smiles  quite  unexplained. 

It  was  finished,  I think,  while  yet  the  old  house 
looked  like  its  dear  old  self. 

Meantime  we  were  watching  most  eagerly  for  the 
first  package  of  “Farmyard”  cards,  which  we  were 
to  colour.  Whatever  delayed  it,  when  we  so  much 
needed  the  work?  Ah,  how  good  it  is  to  learn  that 
God  always  knows  best! — His  loving  wisdom  with- 
held the  package,  against  a harder  day. 

Into  all  the  details  of  that  time  I cannot  go:  they 
are  still  too  bitter-sweet; — and  for  other  reasons  it 
is  not  best.  But  just  when  the  story  was  done,  and 
the  summer  near  its  end,  the  crisis  came.  Books  had 
been  separated,  other  things  sorted  out:  all  that  we 
might  lawfully  keep  was  set  aside ; and  next  day,  the 
rest  was  to  go.  Then,  just  at  nightfall,  the  big  pack- 
age of  cards  walked  in.  No  one  had  heart  to  open 


The  Turning  Tide  279 

it  then.  In  its  heavy  brown  wraps  we  set  it  wearily 
aside, — poor  unknown  harbinger  of  brighter  things; 
and  there  it  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  untouched 
and  almost  forgotten,  until  the  next  day’s  sorrow  had 
run  its  course. 

But  when  we  had  watched  our  little  “Sir  Joshua” 
as  long  as  we  could  see  it,  and  given  farewell  touches 
% to  my  sister’s  piano,  and  followed  with  our  hearts 
the  many  precious  books  and  engravings;  when  at 
last  the  men  and  the  confusion  were  gone;  then  we 
woke  up  to  life. 

Our  little  Revolutionary  (and  revolutionized)  front 
room  was  swept  and  dusted,  stray  bits  of  furniture 
were  gathered  in ; and  I ran  out  for  a handful  of  flowers, 
to  make  myself  feel  at  home.  With  what  materials 
we  could  find  we  set  forth  two  small  makeshift  tables, 
covered  them  somehow,  got  out  our  paint  boxes, 
opened  our  package,  and  fell  to  work. 

“Oh  love  of  God,  how  sweet  thou  art!” 

What  tenderness  but  the  Lord’s  would  have  kept 
back  the  package  for  us  until  that  day  ? 

No  vision  crossed  us  yet  of  “the  high  tide  of  the 
year”;  the  home  bays  and  inlets  shewed  only  ex- 
tremest  low  water.  But  there  was  a stir  and  a ripple 
as  of  an  incoming  supply,  which  was  unspeakably 
refreshing.  And  not  so  blessed  even  to  us  as  to  our 
dear  father,  and  our  dear  Aunt  Fanny.  They  who 
had  seen  further  than  we,  and  suffered  most  of  all 
for  us,  their  children, — what  this  industry  was  to 
them  I can  but  guess.  They  came  at  odd  minutes, 
they  paused  as  they  went  through  the  room;  to  bend 
over  first  one  table  and  then  the  other,  watching  the 
eager  brushes.  Silent,  beguiled,  cheered,  to  a degree 
beyond  expression.  I think  a very  rainbow  of  prom- 


Susan  Warner 


280 

ise  must  have  seemed  to  span  the  little  room,  from 
my  darling’s  head  to  mine. 

The  place  was  very  bare,  where  so  many  precious 
things  had  been:  but  peace  wTas  “left”;  and  the  little 
dish  of  flowers  sweetened  all  the  air.  God  was  with 
us ; and  he  was  leading  us  by  unknowm  paths  to  grounds 
which  he  had  chosen. 

Let  me  say  here,  that  we  coloured  cards  for  a year 
and  a half;  but  then  found  we  could  make  money 
faster  some  other  way.  There  were  twenty-four  cards 
in  a pack;  and  before  I quit  the  work  I could  colour 
twelve  packs  in  a day.  So  much  for  practice. 

Wherever  we  could,  we  slipped  in  a little  variety. 
The  old  cat  had  her  carpet  in  all  colours  known  to 
the  weavers;  so  with  the  elephant’s  trappings;  cows 
and  horses  and  dogs  wore  spots  and  splashes  of  every 
lawful  sort;  and  I ’m  afraid  even  the  pig  found  his 
nose  change  colour. 

The  following  December,  having  gone  to  town  to 
find  and  arrange  winter  quarters  for  us  all,  my  sister 
wrote : 

“I  thought  as  I sailed  quietly  down  the  river  that 
morning,  that  our  place  was  a very  fair  one  and  that 
I should  be  not  desirous  to  change  it  for  another. 
I looked  at  the  hills  in  the  south,  locking  into  one 
another  as  they  do,  speckled  wdth  snow;  I admired 
them;  you  know  I had  scarcely  seen  them  before  this 
year.  When  it  came  actually  to  quitting  home  for 
this  place,  I believe  the  Island  scale  preponderated 
more  than  it  had  done, — that  is,  I better  estimated 
its  advantages  over  those  of  New  York.  ‘Man  is  a 
discontented  animal,’  Annie;  ‘his  appetite  for  sweet 
victual  is  enormous’!  We  had  to  wait  for  the  cars; 
and  on  the  platform  yet  whitened  with  the  hoar 


Martlaer’s  Rock,  Constitution  Island  (House  of  Susan  Warner) 

From  a Photograph 


.**>?■  •> 


\i\'v 


NOjSr*  of vur 


HflfS 


28i 


The  Turning  Tide 

frost  father  and  I walked  cheerfully  up  and  down, 
till  the  tremendous  thing  came  pushing  forth  out 
of  the  tunnel.  Did  you  ever  stand  so  near  and 
see  the  train  come  up  full  speed?  It  is  frightful!  I 
placed  myself  by  the  river  window,  though  I after- 
wards found  that  the  other  side  of  the  cars  was  pre- 
ferred, under  the  notion  I suppose  of  its  being  the 
safest  in  case  of  a turn-over  into  the  river.  I did 
not  look  at  my  books  the  whole  way;  yet  I cannot 
say  that  I enjoyed  the  ride;  the  river  was  too  near, 
and  I could  not  forget  the  possibility  of  that  same 
turn-over.  So  I endured,  till  we  at  last  had  done 
with  stoppings,  quitted  the  river,  and  finally  took 
horses,  and  saw  the  noble  engine  take  itself  off  into 
the  car-house.  Then  the  long  slow  ride  down  to 
Chambers  St.,  past  the  many,  many  stacks  of  boards 
and  lumber  piled  along  the  wharves,  poor-looking 
men,  and  poor-looking  boys,  and  sad -looking  dwel- 
ling places — Oh  the  city, — and  the  suburbs  of  the  city 
— they  are  not  pleasant,  Annie.  I felt  as  I walked 
slowly  up  Broadway  that  I had  left  the  best  part  of 
the  world  behind  me. 

“Mrs.  Cod  wise  had  not  yet  seen  your  book;  Char- 
lotte had  that  very  day  been  down  to  get  one,  and 
while  I was  here  it  came.  ‘Why  Susan,  it ’s  beau- 
tiful!’ says  Mrs.  C.  coming  up  to  me  from  where  she 
had  been  examining  it.  'Do  write  and  ask  Anna  to 
come  down,  will  you?’  She  opened  the  book.  ‘Did 
Anna  write  this  herself?  (reading  aloud)  “The  Monkey 
is  a queer  animal,  resembling  man  too  much,”  etc. 
Why  Susan,  did  she  write  this  herself?  Did  she 
write  that  ? ’ I somewhat  indignantly  vindicated 
your  authorship.” 

Dec.  jist.  She  says: 


282 


Susan  Warner 


“Mr.  Putnam  is  out  of  cards.  Pleasant  that!” 

So  our  brushes  had  leave  to  work  just  as  fast  as 
they  could.  The  Wide,  Wide,  World  was  finished, 
as  I said,  by  the  end  of  that  summer  of  1849,  hut  I 
think  was  not  at  once  offered  to  anyone.  The  con- 
fusions in  the  house,  the  reaction  therefrom,  and 
then  the  absorbed  interest  in  our  painting,  were  per- 
haps the  cause.  But  there  came  a day  when  the  MS. — 
lovingly  wrapped  and  tied  (young  authors  will  under- 
stand)— was  sent  off  like  Puss  in  Boots,  to  seek  a 
fortune  for  its  owner.  Only  the  redoubtable  cat 
went  alone:  while  the  book  was  to  be  taken  by  my 
father,  to  the  publisher  he  knew  best.  Now  when  you 
do  this,  young  friends  of  the  pen,  you  must  not  hold 
the  publisher  too  strictly  accountable  for  all  that 
takes  place.  For  he  does  not  himself  examine  all 
the  MS.  sent  him,  as  you  in  your  first  innocence 
suppose;  but  employs  other  people  to  read,  and  then 
takes  their  report.  And  sometimes  this  reading  is 
just  and  thorough,  and  sometimes  it  is  not. 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  the  beloved  story 
which  was  later  to  win  so  many  hearts,  could  not 
at  first  gain  a hearing;  it  was  refused  by  almost  all 
the  leading  book  firms  in  New  York.  I only  wish  I 
had  the  full  list. 

The  “big  little  book,”  as  my  sister  called  it,  came 
back  from  the  Carters  unrecognized ; from  the  Harpers 
with  “Fudge!”  written  on  one  of  the  pages.  My 
father  would  bring  the  discouraging  news,  and  then 
the  next  week  unweariedly  try  some  other  house. 

But  all  this  takes  time;  and  we  were  at  home  again 
on  the  Island  when  he  announced  one  night  that 
now  he  should  try  Mr.  Putnam. 

At  our  early  breakfast  next  morning,  with  my 


The  Turning  Tide  283 

father  just  off  for  town,  and  the  package  waiting  on 
a chair  near  by,  my  sister  suddenly  broke  forth: 

“Father,  if  Mr.  Putnam  does  not  take  it,  what 
shall  we  do?”  And  my  father  in  his  steadfast 
patience  answered : 

“We  will  wait  and  see.” 

So  once  more  we  watched  the  book  go  off,  gazing 
after  it  with  serious  eyes;  then  went  to  our  painting 
again.  Why  Mr.  Putnam  took  in  such  a pile  of  MS. 
from  an  unknown  hand,  perhaps  he  himself  hardly 
knew.  Something  (I  think  he  said)  in  the  title  struck 
him  as  fresh  and  uncommon;  perhaps  again  there 
was  a mute  appeal  in  my  dear  father’s  face,  which 
the  kind  heart  answered.  But  above  all  second 
causes,  for  us,  the  blessed  truth  remained:  “The 
Lord  gave  Joseph  favour  in  the  sight  of  the  king.” 
And  so  instead  of  coming  back  to  us,  or  even  being 
merged  for  weeks  in  the  smoky  den  of  some  “reader,” 
the  “big  little  book”  went  gaily  sailing  down  to  Staten 
Island,  where  Mr.  Putnam  had  then  his  summer  home. 

It  was  the  time  of  times  for  it  to  go.  For  Mr. 
Putnam’s  mother  was  just  then  on  a visit  at  his  house ; 
and  what  better  could  he  do  for  her  amusement  than 
to  hand  over  the  new  MS.  for  her  to  read  and  judge. 

“See  if  it  is  worth  publishing,”  he  said.  And 
before  long  came  this  clean-cut  answer : 

“If  you  never  publish  another  book,  publish  this.” 
Such  words  from  such  a source  settled  the  question ; 
the  book  was  accepted  and  put  in  hand. 

Of  course  this  was  a great  joy.  Yet  as  I look  back 
now,  it  is  hard  to  realize  how  very  undefined  our 
expectations  were;  how  little  we  counted  upon  any- 
thing, in  those  days.  We  had  not  waited  to  see;  both 
of  us  had  gone  to  writing  again,  smitten  with  the 


284 


Susan  Warner 


delight  of  it,  and  resting  our  minds  from  the  brushes, 
or  at  night  when  we  could  not  paint.  But  what  it 
might  all  do  for  us  was  in  the  vaguest  sort  of  fog 
bank. 

Mrs.  Sigourney  had  offered  a $50  prize  for  the 
best  essay  on  “Female  Patriotism”;  the  same  to  be 
published  in  a little  magazine  called  “The  Ladies’ 
Wreath”;  and  my  sister  was  trying  for  that.  And 
before  the  “Wide,  Wide  World”  had  left  the  printing 
office,  “Queechy”  was  on  the  stocks.  Through  it 
all,  the  same  old  nature  in  her  was  just  crying  out  for 
pleasure, — and  of  course  getting  hard  rubs.  A friend 
and  neighbour  had  offered  to  give  her  riding  lessons: 
The  September  Journal  tells  the  story. 

“ Sep.  13th.  1830.  Have  just,  that  is  this  evening, 
returned  from  my  second  riding  lesson.  My  first  left 
me  in  a high  state  of  excitement  and  delight- — nothing 
for  a very  long  time  indeed  so  fired  my  imagination — 
and  soon  I was  feverish  with  the  desire  to  finish  so 
enormous  a pleasure,  and  with  a fidgety  uneasiness 
about  any  uncertainty  that  might  hang  over  it.  Sun- 
day to  my  great  disappointment  we  could  not  go  to 

church,  so  I could  not  get  a word  from  Mr.  

as  to  when  I might  come  again.  I thought  about 
it  that  day  too  much — not  the  way,  according  to 
Sir  Matthew  Hale,  to  have  it  prosper.  At  any  rate 
upon  the  strength  of  his  full,  free,  repeated  invita- 
tion, and  upon  the  argument  that  he  is  not  a demon- 
strative person  but  one  who  must  be  taken  on  trust, 
we  went  over  on  Monday.  There  was  a funeral — 
I could  not  ride — and  to  my  great  mortification, 

nothing  was  said  by  Mr.  about  any  future 

rides.  But  disconcerted  as  I was,  the  former  argu- 
ments and  the  strength  of  my  wdshes  prevailed  with 


285 


The  Turning  Tide 

me  to  go  on,  simply  trusting  one  who  is  to  be  trusted, 
I think,  if  anybody  is.  I determined  to  go  again. 
Winds  prevented  this  till  to-day.  I went  and  I rode; 
and  I came  back  feeling  as  if  I should  like  to  cry.  I 
must  wait  now  for  somebody  else  to  move.  It  is  well 
my  extravagant  desires  and  delight  have  been  sobered 
by  delay — they  have  just  been  a little  more  sobered. 

Nothing  was  said  about  my  coming  again  (by  Mr. ) , 

and  no  pleasure  expressed  or  looked  in  the  course  of 
the  business  this  afternoon.  His  daughter  asked  him 
in  the  hall  if  he  was  going  to  have  riding,  he  an- 
swered that  he  had  heard  nothing  about  it.  I do 
not  know  what  he  really  felt ; but  if  he  had  had  enough 
of  his  undertaking  his  manner  accorded  therewith; 
and  if  he  had  not,  it  is  not  fair  to  leave  a fastidious 
person  any  room  to  fancy  and  fear.  Well,  it  ’s  a 
soberish  world, — and  yet  my  little  book  is  just  going 
to  press,  and  Anna’s  ‘Reminiscences’  has  been  offered 
to  Appleton,  who  wished  to  send  it  to  his  brother  in 
Phil4.  Two  delicious  pieces  of  good  news — two  mercies 
to  be  very  thankful  for — and  yet  this  horseback  riding 
did  more  elate  my  imagination  than  they  both.  I was 
too  eager  for  it  I suppose — it  did  seem  too  delightful. 
Well — but  oh!  for  friends  to  love  us  as  we  can  love, 
and  have  loved,  yea,  and  do  love  others!  I have  felt 
a longing  for  something  of  the  kind,  and  for  more  to 
do  with  the  world;  or  with  some  nice  extraordinary 
portion  of  it — that  first  horseback  riding  turned  my 
head.  Turned  again  now;  but  it ’s  a sobering  pro- 
cess, this  kind  of  thing, — the  forcible  unclasping  of 
one’s  Will  when  it  has  laid  strong  hold  of  somewhat! 

“ Saturday  14th.  Father  has  read  for  the  second 
time  my  patriotism  paper,  and  likes  it,  he  says,  ‘ex- 
ceedingly well.’  So  that  is  very  good.  I have  n’t 


286 


Susan  Warner 


copied  it  yet.  I felt  almost  a kind  of  pity  for  myself 
last  night, — that  fever  is  over.  God  is  amazingly 
good  to  us.” 

It  was  already  so  late  in  the  season  for  getting  out 
a Christmas  book,  that  Mr.  Putnam  asked  my  sister 
to  come  down  to  Staten  Island  and  stay  at  his  house 
while  correcting  the  proof  sheets,  thus  saving  much 
time.  I wish  I knew  just  how  well  she  was  fitted  out, 
for  this  going  among  strangers:  remembering  how 
barren  things  were  at  home,  it  seems  to  me  the  fur- 
nishing must  have  been  but  scanty.  But  she  was 
herself;  what  could  be  wanting?  Nothing,  to  our 
eyes;  so  sad — and  yet  so  glad — to  see  her  go.  It 
was  such  a crisis  in  her  life, — and  the  letters  home  are 
so  like  her;  the  best  I can  do  is  to  give  them  as  they 
stand.  One  thing  I know  she  had : a carefully  copied 
off  list  of  proof  corrections,  from  the  English  Penny 
Magazine.  Dear  old  magazine! — our  delight  in  richer 
days,  our  helper  now. 

“ Staten  Island , Sept.  23,  1830. 

“My  own  darling  Annie: 

“No  letter  begun  to  you  till  the  afternoon  of  Wednes- 
day! Too  bad;  and  yet  you  will  see  how  difficult  for 
me  to  help  it.  I might  indeed  have  written  this  morn- 
ing after  breakfast;  but  I did  not  feel  inclined  just 
then.  If  I could  only  stop  your  expectations  for  a 
day  or  two  till  this  could  grow  to  some  decent  length 
of  an  epistle,  I should  like  it.  You  see,  my  dear, 
yesterday  I had  proofs  to  correct,  and  was  at  them 
again  this  morning  as  soon  as  I came  downstairs; 
I expect  nothing  less  than  another  budget  6f  the 
same  by  Mr.  Putnam  this  evening,  so  you  perceive 
I am  not  always  in  order  for  letter  writing.  Where 
shall  I begin  with  what  I have  to  say  ? 


287 


The  Turning  Tide 

“I  have  heard  Jenny  Lind!  I have,  there  is  no 
doubt  of  it.  Is  n’t  it  wonderful  how  people  do  things 
for  us?  Dearest  Annie,  if  it  had  only  been  you!  I 
would  have  given  the  pleasure  to  you  instead  of  my- 
self, if  I could,  with  the  greatest  delight. 

“I  was  introduced  in  due  form,  as  you  have  doubt- 
less heard,  to  my  host  and  hostess,  and  established 
in  one  of  the  two  armchairs  behind  the  screen,  in  the 
great  bookstore,  to  await  the  time  when  we  might 
walk  down  to  Whitehall  to  take  the  one  o’clock  boat 
for  Staten  Island.  Little  Minny  Putnam  was  intro- 
duced to  me  as,  I believe,  the  lady  who  had  written 
‘Robinson  Crusoe’s  Farmyard,’  but  I didn’t  rush 
into  explanations  at  the  very  first  burst.  Mr.  Putnam 
shewed  me  a beautiful  illustrated  copy  of  ‘Rural 
Hours’;  exquisite  birds  and  pretty  flowers;  but  I 
would  have  given  more  general  illustrations.  He  also 
shewed  me  some  papier  mache  covers  for  the  same 
work, — adorned  very  handsomely  with  mother-of-pearl 
wreaths  of  flowers — all  different.  That  book  has 
taken  very  well ; is  n’t  it  odd  ? Then  I turned  over 
the  leaves  of  a most  splendid  Pilgrims  Progress 
which  Mr.  Putnam  had  received  as  a present  from 
England.  Full  of  illustrations  beautifully  done,  in 
all  but  the  mind's  part ; so  on  the  whole  to  my  taste 
poor.  Mr.  P.  had  left  us,  after  shewing  me  a bundle 
of  proofs  and  telling  me  if  I was  tired  of  waiting  there 
I might  amuse  myself  with  them.  Not  there  > many 
thanks  to  him.  I sat  looking  over  the  Pilgrims 
Progress,  too  much  out  of  my  latitude  to  enjoy  it, 
and  sometimes  exchanging  a few  words  with  Mrs. 
Putnam.  By  and  by  appeared  Mr.  Putnam,  and 
surprised  me  greatly  by  saying  to  me  that  he  had 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  a ticket  for  me  for 


288 


Susan  Warner 


Jenny  Lind’s  concert  that  evening,— he  could  only 
get  such  and  such  a place,  but  it  was  the  last  ticket 
to  be  had.  Mrs.  Putnam  then  and  afterwards  ex- 
pressed great  pleasure  that  he  had  succeeded ; she  had 
been  afraid  they  would  have  to  do  a rude  thing, — 
go  off  and  leave  me  alone.  I assured  her  I should 
not  have  taken  it  so.  But  I have  heard  tell  of  such 
a thing  being  done,  haven’t  you?  ‘I  am  so  pleased 
Mr.  Putnam  got  that  ticket!’  Mrs.  Putnam  repeated 
when  we  were  in  the  boat.  ‘I  am  so  pleased  you  are 
pleased,’  I rejoined.  It  was  handsomely  done,  was  n’t 
it?  By  the  time  we  reached  the  Island  I was  some- 
what disordered,  by  fatigue  and  excitement  I sup- 
pose; head  and  stomach  a little  unsettled.  I could 
have  wished  Jenny’s  concert  had  been  another  day. 
My  ‘traps  ’ which  w^ere  to  come  by  the  express,  had  not 
come;  it  was  a very  warm  day,  and  I was  decidedly 
tired  of  my  boots.  Dinner  made  me  a little  better; 
and  then,  nicely  established  in  the  little  library  (not 
so  big  as  ours,  Annie)  with  the  glass  door  and  the 
beautiful  bay  at  my  left  hand,  I fell  to  correcting 
proofs.  But  I was  unsettled  yet,  and  was  fain  to 
lean  my  head  on  my  hands  as  best  I might,  to  try 
to  keep  myself  in  order.  My  box  did  not  come  (it 
came  afterwards)  before  it  was  time  to  set  off  for  the 
city  again;  so  I had  to  go  in  merino  and  bonnet,  in- 
stead of  silk  and  hood,  which  would  have  been  pref- 
erable. I was  too  uncomfortable  on  the  way  to  do 
much  more  than  sit  and  nurse  myself,  keeping  as 
quiet  as  I could.  We  went  in  the  five  o’clock  boat, 
the  next  one  being  rather  too  late  for  convenience. 
My  acquaintance  was  claimed  by  a lady  or  two  on 
board  who  seemed  intimate  with  Mrs.  Putnam,  and 
when  Mrs.  B.  mentioned  her  former  name  of  Miss 


289 


The  Turning  Tide 

A I recollected  her  perfectly  well.  Of  her  sis- 
ter, still  a Miss  A , I confess  I had  no  know- 

ledge, past  or  otherwise,  though  she  said  she  knew 
me.  They  are  cousins  of  Mrs.  M. 

“As  the  concert  began  at  eight  judge  what  a waiting 
we  had  in  the  concert  room.  If  I had  been  well  it 
would  not  have  mattered,  but  I was  not  well,  and 
my  patience  was  tried.  It  was  very  warm;  and  it 
is,  I should  think,  a difficult  matter  in  the  best  of 
times  to  keep  anything  like  thorough  ventilation  in 
a room  where  there  is  such  an  assemblage  of  human 
beings, — a difficulty  rather  increased  I presume  on 
the  present  occasion  by  the  fact  that  the  openings 
in  the  roof  were  occupied  by  spectators,  who  looked 
down  and  waved  handkerchiefs  from  thence,  instead 
of  permitting  the  air  to  wave  to  our  relief.  As  a 
necessary  consequence  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
seats  were  sold,  our  places  were  not  together.  I was 
utterly  by  myself,  except  when  Mr.  Putnam,  who  had 
what  was  called  a promenade  ticket,  came  to  see  me. 
I did  not  care  for  that;  the  audience  was  very  well 
behaved,  and  the  gentleman  at  my  left  belonged  to 
a large  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  before  me;  so  I 
was  at  ease;  I had  an  excellent  position  for  seeing, 
except  as  to  distance;  I could  not  distinguish  features. 
But,  on  the  whole,  I was  very  well  satisfied  with  my 
situation.  Or  I should  have  been  had  I been  well. 
But  I was  under  the  balcony,  it  was  warm,  it  was 
close,  I had  that  unsettled  condition  of  body  which 
put  an  edge  upon  disagreeablenesses;  and  some  of 
the  people  beside  and  before  me  would  stand  up — 
how  they  smothered  me!  After  we  had  sat  there  a 
great  while,  the  gentleman  at  my  right  asked  the 
gentleman  at  my  left  what  o’clock  it  was — twenty- 


19 


290 


Susan  Warner 


two  minutes  past  seven.  And  all  that  more  than  a 
half  hour  yet  to  -wait ! Well ! — 

‘ ‘ One  or  two  of  the  large  party  who  were,  as  I told 
you,  my  neighbours,  made  themselves  exceeding  busy. 
‘There ’s  this  one,’  and  ‘there ’s  that ! ’ — etc.,  etc.  They 
seemed  to  know  a good  many  people;  they  had  nice 
little  pink  merino  and  satin  party  cloaks,  and  plenty 
of  opera  glasses  among  them.  N.B.  They  never 
offered  me  one,  which  I really  think  they  might,  seeing 
that  I was  a peaceable,  well-disposed  person  and  evi- 
dently entirely  alone;  but  perhaps  I am  extravagant 
in  my  notions  of  politeness.  My  right-hand  neigh- 
bour was  considerate,  for  he  offered  after  a while  to 
exchange  seats  with  me,  that  he  might,  as  he  said, 
be  next  a lady.  I declined.  He  was  an  easy  young 
man  that;  he  borrowed  the  programme  of  me,  and 
once  or  twice  an  opera-glass  from  one  of  the  aforesaid 
large  party. 

“At  last  came  the  overture,  which  was  something; 
then  came  Signor  Belletti,  who  was  nothing  (nothing 
but  the  leading  of  the  type) ; and  then  Jenny.  Well, 
what  shall  I say?  Imagine  the  clearest,  sweetest, 
loveliest  notes  of  the  AEolian  harp,  utterance  like  the 
gurgling  of  water,  and  compass  and  power,  when  she 
chose,  that  seemed,  so  to  speak,  unlimited!  Once 
in  a duet  where  Belletti  pretends  to  be  giving  her  a 
singing  lesson,  she  made  a trill  of  marvellous  length 
and  beauty, — his  response  was  a sort  of  grunted  ‘OH!’ 
of  wonder, — and  how  they  clapped!  They  encored 
her,  they  shouted  for  her,  they  flung  flowers  at  her. 
It  was  something  to  see.  What  will  you  say  if  I tell 
you  that  the  most  moving  part  of  the  whole  exhibition 
was  her  manner.  What  will  you  think  if  I tell  you 
that  her  manner  of  courtesying  more  than  once  brought 


291 


The  Turning  Tide 

tears  to  my  eyes?  I don’t  very  much  wonder;  such  a 
sea  of  human  heads  you  never  looked  upon — Mr.  Put- 
nam estimated  them  at  8500,  the  largest  concert  per- 
haps yet ; and  to  see  such  an  assemblage  collected  to  do 
voluntary  homage  to  the  talent  and  character  of  one 
poor  woman, — I should  think  if  she  had  much  feeling 
it  might  move  her.  I never  saw  any  one  courtesy 
so  before.  It  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  get  low 
enough;  she  bowed  her  head  almost,  or  quite,  to  her 
knees;  it  seemed  to  my  fancy  as  if  a certain  feeling 
of  humility,  the  sense  of  gratitude  and  the  desire  of 
acknowledgement,  were  labouring  to  express  them- 
selves. They  did  express  themselves  to  me.  Her 
face  is  extremely  good,  as  I know  from  an  engraving 
here  which  is  certified  to  be  like  her;  a very  noble, 
fine  expression  of  countenance.  She  gave  us  the  echo 
song! — Oh  Annie!  what  can  words  say. 

“The  fresh  air  was  very  pleasant  after  it  all.  I came 
home,  feeling  by  the  time  I reached  it  very  much 
better  than  when  I set  out;  and  having  talked  away 
at  a rate  during  the  sail  to  Mr.  Putnam,  who  I after- 
wards found  out  was  very  tired,  and  so  it  is  to  be 
feared  not  in  condition  to  appreciate  my  loquacity. 

“Mrs.  Putnam  is,  I judge,  a superior  woman;  I 
should  think  from  the  little  I have  seen,  a woman  of 
fine  temper  and  fine  sense.  She  has  a lovely  family  of 
children,  five  little  ones,  intelligent,  lively  and  happy, 
and  her  manner  with  them  I like  very  exceedingly. 
I think  she  is  uncommonly  nice.  English,  and  with 
English  nicety  of  appurtenances , her  table,  her  toilet, 
etc.  Her  sister,  Mrs.  Bishop,  was  praising  the  whole 
concern  to  me  this  morning, — a happy  family  she 
says,  and  I should  think  so.  Tonight  we  have  had 
company — three  Miss  R , and  their  brother,  and 


292 


Susan  Warner 


Mrs.  Bishop;  and  tomorrow,  if  nothing  happens,  the 
same  party  are  to  meet  again  at  the  house  of  the 
latter  lady.  There  is  a very  nice  piano,  much  at  my 
service,  and  great  plenty  of  nice  music  too,  my  style ; 
and  lots  of  books.  Mrs.  Putnam  has  lent  me  Bulwer’s 
‘Caxtons’  to  bring  home  to  read  when  we  are  paint- 
ing. She  praises  it  very  highly. 

“Dearest  Anna,  these  people  have  stayed  so  late 
that  I must  cut  short  my  letter.  I have  a proof  to 
correct,  if  I live,  in  the  morning,  before  eight  o’clock. 
Mr.  P.  says  I need  not  make  extraordinary  efforts 
about  it,  but  I shall  for  all  that. 

“Dear  Annie,  dear  Aunty,  dear  father,  good  night. 
Love  to  the  dear  family  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.” 

Staten  Island , Sept.  26 , 1850. 

‘ ‘ My  dearest  Annie.  How  very  strangely  things  do 
come  about  in  this  world.  Here  am  I in  a house  I 
have  driven  past  with  Mrs.  Cod  wise  ever  so  many 
times,  thinking  nothing  less  than  that  I should  ever  be 
an  inhabitant  of  it ; and  I am  here,  absolutely  correcting 
the  printed  pages  of  that  work  I have  been  poring  over 
for  these  three  years.  One  hardly  realises  it,  as  Miss 
Cooper  says.  This  house  is  very  near  the  same  land- 
ing that  Mrs.  Cod  wise  comes  to,  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion from  that  we  take  to  her  place,  on  the  same  road 
and  immediately  upon  it  and  upon  the  bay,  like  hers ; 
but  the  curve  of  the  shore  makes  a considerable  differ- 
ence in  the  points  of  view.  I wonder  where  she  is ; it 
would  be  funny  enough  if  she  and  I should  have  a ren- 
contre down  here ; I have  a very  pleasant  second-story 
back  room,  with  a nice  light  iron  bedstead  painted 
blue,  and  at  the  foot  of  it  a blue  chintz-covered  divan, 
which  is  also  a box  wherein,  as  Minny  informed  me 


293 


The  Turning  Tide 

the  day  I came,  ‘we  put  our  things,’ — putting  in  my 
bonnet  as  she  spoke.  The  walls  upstairs  and  down 
are  abundantly  hung  with  engravings,  and  plenty  of 
charming  books  are  around.  I have  read  none,  how- 
ever, since  I came,  I have  been  busy  otherwise. 

“At  dinner,  the  first  day,  talking  about  obstinacy 
or  some  other  thing,  Minny  remarked  to  her  mother 
that  it  said  in  ‘Robinson  Crusoe’s  Farmyard’  that 
‘A  colt  is  a remarkably  independent  young  animal.’ 
‘You  see  you  are  quoted,  Miss  Warner,’  said  Mrs. 
Putnam.  ‘Not  I,’  said  I, — ‘my  sister.’  ‘Your  sis- 
ter ? ’ — So  I have  indicated  your  separate  identity  as  an 
author,  which  I presume  was  a point  by  no  means 
clear  before.  It  will  be  a wonder  if  I escape  without 
getting  some  rubs  of  suspicion,  in  a world  where  things 
do  so  go  from  mouth  to  mouth  as  they  do  in  this. 
Now  here  is  Mrs.  Bishop — she  has  been  here  these 
two  nights  and  mornings,  and  had  heard  me  speak 
of  work  I had  been  doing  before  breakfast,  and  asked 
twice  ‘what  work,  ’ and  been  answered  by  Mrs.  Putnam 
‘writing,’  and  by  me  that  I was  getting  something 
ready  to  go  by  Mr.  P.  What  she  thinks  or  knows  I 
am  ignorant.  But  last  night  she  was  asking  me  if  I 
had  seen  Mr.  James?  I told  her  I had  been  living 
on  a desert  island.  But  it  seems  he  has  been  up  our 
way,  and  she  said  she  thought  I might  have  seen 
him,  ‘as  I belonged  to  the  literary  world!’  I took 
my  place  in  the  literary  world  quietly,  and  said  nothing, 
not  being  able  in  fact  to  concoct  an  answer,  and  it 
was  as  well,  for  it  was  much  better  to  be  silent.  I was 
asked  if  I knew  Miss  Sedgwick — Mr.  Putnam  thinks 
she  is  a piece  of  perfection,  that  is,  according  to  his 
wife.  Now  Mrs.  Bishop  has  met  Mrs.  Codwise  and 
intends  to  call  upon  her  when  she  next  comes  to  the 


294 


Susan  Warner 


Island  to  reside;  and  if  she  do  it  is  infallible  that 
she  gets  upon  my  chapter.  How  absurd  it  is ! Liter- 
ary people  are  talked  of  familiarly,  as  if  they  were 
seen  and  known  by  these  ladies.  Miss  Lynch  the 
poetess  is  a friend  of  Mrs.  Bishop;  and  very  little  of 
a poetess  Mrs.  Putnam  thinks  her.  Mr.  Putnam  is 
going  to  publish  something  of  Mr.  Ehninger's,  I believe; 
not  a book,  I think.  Dr.  Mayo  is  voted  by  Mrs. 
Putnam,  as  to  his  social  qualifications,  sufficiently 
stupid,  but  she  says  he  writes  with  great  originality. 
Well!— 

“How  long  my  printing  is  to  take  I have  not  the 
remotest  idea.  I trust  Mr.  Putnam  will  push  mat- 
ters, for  up  to  the  present  moment  I have  seen  but 
the  seventy-fifth  page.  Now  you  know  among  nine 
hundred — I finished  my  last  night’s  proof  this  morning. 
Your  letter  I wrote  last  night.  I rose  very  early,  so 
that  I had  accomplished  quite  a long,  elaborate  dress- 
ing by  the  time  it  was  light  enough  for  me  to  work. 
Mr.  Putnam  shall  not  have  to  complain  of  me.  Do 
you  know,  I am  really  in  want  of  sleep.  The  com- 
pany did  not  leave  us  last  night  until  after  eleven, 
and  I was  not  ‘in  the  arms  of  porpus’  till  a good  while 
later;  and  the  night  before  last  we  did  not  leave  the 
supper-table  I think  till  after  twelve;  and  yesterday 
morning  too  I had  a proof  to  finish,  though  I was 
not  quite  so  stirring  as  to-day.  It  was  very  warmish 
weather  yesterday,  so  that  I wore  my  green  muslin. 
I accomplished  dressing  myself  in  very  creditable 
style,  without  any  help  too.  Could  one  have  believed 
it? — but  one  doesn’t  know  what  the  shoulders  are 
equal  to  till  they  are  tried. 

“ Saturday  the  2 Sth.  No  letter  from  you  yet.  I 
shall  look  for  one  tonight.  Thursday  was  a day  of 


295 


The  Turning  Tide 

rain, — we  could  not  go  to  Mrs.  Bishop’s.  In  the 
morning  Mrs.  Putnam  was  busy  with  her  little  school, 
as  usual;  and  I with  my  own  affairs  of  one  kind  and 
another.  In  the  afternoon  I sewed  on  my  muslins 
and  Mrs.  Putnam  read  aloud, — a curious  French  story 
of  Toepfer’s.  She  read  in  French , and  though  I could 
not  understand  all  I liked  it  very  well.  Mr.  Putnam 
comes  home  to  a late  tea,  and  after  tea  I correct  proofs, 
at  the  centre  table;  Mrs.  P.  working  or  reading,  and 
Mr.  P.  reading  or  sleeping.  Minny  and  Haven  Put- 
nam, the  eldest  boy  and  girl,  dine  with  us.  But  none 
of  the  children  appear  at  the  breakfast  or  tea.  I like 
that  very  well  I must  say.  What  possibility  of  con- 
versation is  there  at  a table  where  four  or  five  children 
are  to  be  attended  to?  Yesterday  was  another  day 
of  clouds — we  went  to  our  French  book  again  in  the 
afternoon.  You  ought  to  see  the  handfuls  of  papers, 
periodicals,  and  new  books  with  which  Mr.  Putnam 
comes  home  in  the  evening.  ‘A  sight  for  sair  e’en’ 
sure  enough. 

“This  is  a very  happy  family.  I have  rarely  seen 
one  that  pleased  me  so  much.  Mrs.  Putnam  is  a 
jewel  of  a wife  and  mother.  It  is  pleasant  to  see 
the  perfect  affection  and  good  humour  between  the 
heads  of  the  family,  and  the  very  nice  management 
and  education  of  the  fine,  intelligent  children.  Minny 
is  veiy  intelligent.  Mrs.  Putnam  does  not  seem  to 
consider  her  children  a burdensome  charge;  she  is  a 
very  great  contrast  to  Mrs.  S.  You  should  see  her 
in  the  morning,  at  the  table,  with  two  or  three  of  the 
oldest  ones,  for  a long  time  instructing  them  in  French, 
English,  arithmetic,  general  knowledge,  music,  and 
other  things,  I don’t  know  exactly  what;  and  so 
patiently,  and  pleasantly,  and  intelligently , and  firmly. 


296 


Susan  Warner 


And  you  should  have  seen  the  baby  brought  down 
to  shew  me  this  morning  after  her  bath  of  cold  water, 
with  only  something  thrown  over  her  coming  down 
and  going  upstairs;  Mrs.  S.  would  have  thought  H. 
in  a fair  way  of  being  killed. 

“I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  very  day  I came 
one  of  the  children  brought  away  from  the  store 
Robinson  Crusoe’s  Farmyard, — they  had  once  had 
it  before,  but  it  had  been  taken  back  to  the  store 
again.  Yesterday  at  dinner  we  were  speaking  of 
‘Harry  and  Lucy.’  ‘Mamma,’  said  Minny,  ‘when  are 
we  going  to  have  the  story  of  Ellen V What  is  that? 
thought  I.  ‘That  is  Miss  Warner’s  story,’  said  Mrs. 
Putnam;  and  wrent  on  to  say  that  they  had  read  a 
chapter  of  it  aloud  in  the  family,  ‘about  the  little 
black  girl.’  I explained  that  that  entire  interesting 
relation  had  been  expunged  from  the  book.  Mrs. 
Putnam  declared  that  was  ‘too  bad’;  and  Minny 
opined  ‘that  was  real  bad.’  Mrs.  Putnam,  however, 
said  she  had  heard  Mr.  Putnam  say — that  the  size  of 
a book  has  so  much  to  do  with  its  success. 

“Today  is  very  fine,  and  Mrs.  Putnam  has  gone 
to  the  city  whither  business  called  her,  after  very 
kindly  apologising  to  me.  If  I was  not  incognito  I 
might  have  gone  to  see  people.  But  incognito! — 
I don’t  know  exactly  how  it  is  to  be  preserved,  for 
in  this  blessed  world  of  gossip  a secret  derives  little 
security  from  the  fact  that  it  is  a trifle  and  concerns 
only  a stranger.  Minny  last  night  asked  me  to  tell 
her  a story, — ‘as  I made  books  I could  tell  stories.’ 
Now  a child  is  enough  to  unbar  the  doors  of  a prison 
secret  at  any  time.  I would  fain  keep  mine  fast. 
The  printer  is  very  dilatory.  I should  be  extremely 
satisfied  with  my  situation  if  the  business  for  which 


29  7 


The  Turning  Tide 

I came  were  making  better  headway.  But  I have 
no  more  proofs  at  night  than  I can  get  ready  to  send 
back  by  Mr.  Putnam  in  the  morning.  Last  night 
I had  only  ten  pages.  I have  reached  but  the  102nd. 
I don’t  know  exactly  what  I shall  do  if  the  printer 
cannot  be  prevailed  upon;  at  this  rate  a fortnight 
will  not  accomplish  my  work.  I wish,  by  the  way — 
you  (somebody)  would  send  me  a little  more  money; 
I might  want  it.  My  purchases,  of  a mouseline  for 
you  and  stockings  for  me,  left  me  but  one  dollar  plus 
eighteen  pence,  now  reduced  to  one  dollar  and  six- 
pence; and  I have  the  expressman  to  pay;  so  don’t 
forget. 

“I  have  been  walking  on  the  piazza  for  exercise 
this  morning,  then  having  a good  practice,  then 
writing,  and  just  now  dining, — all  by  myself  alone; 
off  a whole  joint  and  an  unbroken  pudding  however. 
Do  you  know  there  are  very  few  people  I should 
as  well  like  to  see  at  the  Island  as  this  same  Mrs. 
Putnam.  Oh! — she  asked  me  the  other  day  at  dinner, 
— I had  casually  mentioned  you, — she  asked  if  you 
were  like  me!  I laughed,  and  told  her  ‘you  were  an 
improved  edition  of  me,  in  every  respect.  ’ She  laughed, 
and  presently  said,  ‘That  is  funny.’ 

‘ ‘ Monday  joth.  Saturday  night  brought  me  your  lit- 
tle note, — too  little, — you  had  not  yet  heard  from  me. 
And  the  tone  of  it,  or  some  things  in  it,  struck  me 
rather  sadly.  Perhaps  it  was  that  with  my  happy 
facility  I had  forgotten  the  set  of  feelings  we  carry 
about  with  us  at  home,  or  partly  forgotten  them. 
As  to  your  little  work”  (I  think  this  must  have  been 
the  first  volume  of  a child’s  book — “Mr.  Rutherford’s 
Children”)  “you  must  not  be  in  the  slightest  dis- 
couraged,— were  you?  The  approbation  of  the  New 


298 


Susan  Warner 


York  Appleton’s  reader  is  pretty  good  guarantee  that 
somebody  will  be  found  to  approve  it.  In  good  time. 
I had  to  wait,  and  so  did  you,  for  your  first  ‘ventur;’ 
and  we  ought  to  know  better  by  this  time  than  to 
despond  because  of  any  involuntary  delays.  As  to 
the  Ladies’  Wreath  I am  apt  to  conclude  they  are 
not  overstocked  with  competitor  essays;  and  if  so, 
hurrah!  As  to  your  being  lonely,  I am  sorry  indeed; 
I had  half  forgotten  it.  What  can  I do?  I hope 
you  will  have  company  to  make  you  forget  me.  I 
don’t  think  it  is  a matter  of  very  great  surprise 
if  I lost  sight  of  more  than  half  my  accustomed 
trains  of  thought,  amid  all  the  wdiirl  of  last  week; 
novelty  and  excitement  and  strange  positions  and 
situations. 

“Yesterday  was  beautiful,  as  to  weather.  I came 
downstairs  at  I knew  not  what  o’clock,  and  finding 
no  stir,  went  out  upon  the  piazza  and  began  a long 
walk  up  and  down  it.  The  wind  blew  so  fresh  at 
one  comer  of  the  house  that  I was  glad  to  turn  a 
little  short  of  it;  at  the  other  end  of  the  piazza  I some- 
times stood  a little  to  look  over  the  bay.  One  of 
these  times  I happened  to  think  of  affairs , and  the 
wish  came  over  me  that  we  might  be  a little  better 
off, — that  our  plans  might  have  success,  or  something 
of  the  kind;  and  then  I remembered  the  words  ‘A 
little  that  a righteous  man  hath  is  better  than  the 
riches  of  many  wicked’;  and  if  you  had  been  near 
you  might  have  seen  me  smile.  We  went  to  church 
in  the  morning,  quite  a long  walk.  Mr.  M.  did  not 
gain  in  the  least  upon  my  good  graces.  Coming  out 
Mrs.  Shaw  accosted  me  very  pleasantly.  She  is  stay- 
ing on  the  Island  this  summer.  The  rest  of  the  day 
Mrs.  Putnam  was  confined  to  her  room  by  a slight 


The  Turning  Tide 


299 

indisposition.  I poured  out  tea  for  Mr.  P.  and  told 
stories  to  the  children. 

“This  morning  having  it  on  my  mind  that  I must 
be  up  very  early  to  correct  proofs  (for  two  gentlemen, 
coming  in  Saturday  night  stopped  me),  I woke  up 
by  bright  starlight  and  got  up  in  brave  time.  Cor- 
rected I don’t  know  how  many  pages  before  break- 
fast, and  four  or  five  since.  It  does  read  very  well, 
Annie,  now  that  I have  mostly  got  past  the  omis- 
sions and  abbreviations,  which  one  or  two  of  them 
go  a little  against  the  grain  with  me.  I have  but  just 
got  Ellen  to  Miss  Fortune’s,  and  that  chapter  finishes 
about  the  120th  page.  So  I don’t  think  the  book 
promises  to  be  so  enormous.  I hope  you  have,  or 
are  to  have,  company.  How  is  Mrs.  M.?  Take  care 
of  yourselves  all;  father,  aunty,  and  little  A.; — ‘love 
me  and  mend  me,’  as  Benedick  hath  it.  Yours  all, 
sincerely  and  dearly.  Susan. 

“Received  yours  last  night.  Thank  you,  love, 
Tuesday.” 

11  Staten  Island , Oct.  1,  1850. 

“Dearest  Anna,  I have  just  been  reading  over 
again  your  letter,  which  at  the  time  of  its  arrival 
received  but  a hurried  notice,  or  rather  a partial  one. 
I was  interrupted  by  tea,  and  even  before  we  sat 
down  to  table  came  in  Miss  A.,  by  invitation,  I pre- 
sume, for  others  of  her  family  were  to  follow  her 
later  in  the  evening.  Now  I had  a good  bundle  of 
proofs,  as  well  as  your  letter,  in  my  pocket.  I sat 
and  played  the  agreeable  a little  while  after  tea,  but 
I knew  it  would  not  do  to  trust  to  finishing  my  work 
in  the  morning,  unless  it  were  begun  overnight,  so 
I lit  my  candle  and  went,  though  Mr.  Putnam  (who 
had  himself  been  correcting  his  own  proofs)  remarked 


3°° 


Susan  Warner 


to  me  that  there  was  a place  if  I wanted  to  go  on 
with  my  literary  work!  But  such  a degree  of  non- 
chalance is  a pitch  above  me.  I quietly  took  myself 
to  my  own  little  table  in  my  own  room,  where  I was 
working  in  very  businesslike  style,  with  the  side  of 
the  bed  littered  with  manuscript  and  proof  sheets, 
when  Mrs.  Putnam  came  to  remonstrate.  I prom- 
ised to  make  my  appearance  before  the  end  of  the 
evening — she  said  Mrs.  B.  wanted  to  see  me,  and 
she  spoke  of  my  coming  down  to  play  them  a time! 
So  after  a little  more  work  I descended.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  B.  and  a Mr.  J.,  the  next  door  neighbour,  were 
added  to  Miss  A.,  and  we  were  very  chatty.  We 
had  peaches  and  sponge  cake,  and  I played  two  tunes, 
very  much,  seemingly,  to  the  pleasure  of  the  company. 
Mrs.  B.  was  desirous  that  her  daughter  should  have 
the  advantage  of  hearing  me ; and  I was  very  cordially 
invited  by  her,  and  I think  her  sister,  and  even  by 
Mr.  B.  to  give  them  an  evening.  I said  I should  be 
very  glad,  but  I shall  not  of  course  go  near  them 
unless  a particular  invitation  oblige  me.  I found 
afterwards  on  inquiry  that  Mr.  P.’s  open  remarks 
led  to  Miss  A.’s  asking  ‘if  I was  literary’? — to  which 
Mr.  Putnam  had  responded  ‘0  yes,’ — and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  B.  had  asked  what  I was  writing,  or  publishing, 
I don’t  know  which  they  said.  I do  not  understand 
that  they  heard  the  title  of  my  affair,  but  where  is 
my  incognito?  Mrs.  B.  of  course  vrrites  to  Mrs.  M., 
that  Susan  Warner  is  doing  so  and  so;  Mrs.  M.  writes 
the  same  to  Miss  A.,  who  knows  us  just  enough  to  be 
disagreeable,  and  she  tells  whomsoever  it  does  not 
concern.  This  is  not  vanity,  for  nothing  is  too  trifling 
in  another’s  affairs  to  engage  the  notice  and  enlist 
the  tongues  of  the  gossiping  world.  Mrs.  B.,  it  seems, 


The  Turning  Tide  301 

reported  of  me  that  I was  such  a smart  girl  at  school ; 
I informed  Mrs.  Putnam  that  I had  never  been  to 
school  but  six  months  in  my  life  and  then  not  with 
Mrs . B.  She  said  that  was  funny.  After  they  were 
gone  last  night  I came  up  to  my  room  and  went  to  my 
proofs  again,  not  daring  to  defer  them  all  to  the  mor- 
row. I heard  twelve  o’clock  strike  when  I had  been 
in  bed  a few  minutes.  Then  I waked  up  early,  too 
early,  went  to  sleep  again  and  overslept  myself;  but 
had  still,  thanks  to  a very  late  breakfast,  a long  pull 
at  my  proofs,  and  finished  them  all  but  a little. 

11  Wednesday  2nd.  Yesterday  after  breakfast,  that 
is  after  Mrs.  Putnam  and  I had  finished  discussing 
oysters  and  peaches  and  milk-toast  and  matters  of 
conversation,  for  Mr.  Putnam  had  to  run  to  the  boat, 
while  she  went  to  her  school  I busied  myself  in 
one  thing  and  another  as  usual,  walking  in  the  yard 
and  finally  writing  to  you;  during  which  last  occu- 
pation Mrs.  P.  came  in  and  proposed  as  she  had  to 
go  to  the  city  for  a few  matters  for  baby,  that  I should 
go  with  her.  I demurred  and  declined  at  first,  but 
she  rather  pressed  it,  saying  the  sail  would  do  me 
good,  and  Mr.  Putnam  would  look  all  askew  if  she 
came  there  again  and  left  me  at  home.  The  after- 
noon was  lovely,  and  I privately  concluded  I had 
better  spend  my  two  shillings;  so  I dressed  and  we 
had  dinner,  and  at  three  o’clock  took  the  boat.  New 
York  was  a dismal  crowd.  We  went  into  John  Street 
and  some  distance  up  Broadway,  as  far  as  Peyser’s, 
and  then  having  finished  our  shopping  returned  to 
Mr.  Putnam’s  office,  as  they  call  it,  where  we  had  an 
hour  to  wait  and  rest  before  it  would  be  time  to  go 
down  to  take  the  six  and  a half  o’clock  boat.  So 
there  we  sat,  Mrs.  Putnam  and  I,  in  the  two  armchairs 


3°2 


Susan  Warner 


in  the  snuggery,  somewhat  shielded  but  not  entirely 
from  the  rest  of  the  store.  Do  you  conceive  how  odd 
it  w^as  to  think  of,  i\nnie?  I behind  the  scenes,  as 
it  were  at  home  in  that  big  bookstore,  now  turning 
over  the  last  number  of  Harper,  now  gazing  at  a little 
copy  of  the  Greek  Slave  under  a glass  shade  on  the 
corner  of  the  desk,  and  sometimes  peering  down  the 
store,  observing  the  clerks  and  enjoying  the  novelty. 
Mrs.  Putnam  asked  one  of  the  clerks  or  bookmen  if 
he  thought  Mr.  Ehninger’s  work,  which  lay  by,  would 
sell?  He  said  he  should  think  not.  My  dear,  it  is 
illustrations  of  Hood’s  Bridge  of  Sighs,  in  a series  of 
half  a dozen  etchings,  designed  to  tell  the  whole  story 
from  long  before  where  Hood  takes  it  up.  Tame,  I 
think ; and  he  rather  points  the  material  than  the  ideal 
of  the  piece,  to  my  fancy.  Of  Irving’s  Sketch  Book 
Mr.  P.  has  sold  ten  or  twelve  thousand , — there  was  not 
a copy  left  in  the  store  last  night.  We  stayed  at  last 
till  Mrs.  Putnam  was  afraid  of  being  left,  —it  was  the 
last  boat,  —and  we  had  a rush  down  to  Whitehall ; 
three  or  four  minutes  to  spare  after  all.  The  Castle 
Garden  chimes  were  playing  Old  Hundred  beautifully 
as  we  crossed  the  Battery.  The  sail  down  was  most 
beautiful.  The  sun,  at  that  hour,  was  some  time 
down,  you  know,  and  all  along  the  western  horizon 
was  a hue  of  very  rich  deep  orange,  melting  presently 
into  clear  light  blue,  and  above  it  hung  the  evening 
star,  as  bright  as  possible.  Against  this  sky  every 
vessel  that  passed  us  shewed  finely,  the  sails  whether 
in  light  or  shadow  so  deeply  defined  upon  the  clear 
distance  which  yet  was  dim  enough  to  throw  them 
out  well.  And  on  the  other  side  lay  the  city— with 
its  gleaming  lights;  the  Dipper  was  overhead,  and 
under  the  north  star  the  Aurora  Borealis  began  to 


3°3 


The  Turning  Tide 

shoot  up.  We  four,  for  little  Haven  was  of  the  party, 
sat  alone  just  at  the  end  of  the  boat,  Mrs.  Putnam 
and  I admiring,  and  Mr.  Putnam  singing  songs,  in 
the  most  comfortable  manner,  only  the  wind  blew 
rather  too  fresh.  Then  tea,  peaches,  and  proofs, 

during  which  last  Mr. came  in  and  smoked 

a cigar;  but  I went  resolutely  on  with  my  work.  Up 
this  morning  again  long  before  light,  so  that  I finished 
a thorough  toilet  by  the  time  I could  see  to  work. 
Got  to  the  end  of  my  proofs  just  by  breakfast. 

“I  can  do  ten  pages  in  the  morning  before  I have 
to  go  down  stairs, — not  much  more.  I am  now  in 
the  13th  chapter;  only  there.  At  this  rate  it  cannot 
be  ended  in  a fortnight.  I wish  I had  some  other 
place  to  go  to  at  that  time,  till  it  be  finished.  If  your 
wits  can  hit  upon  anything,  help  me.  You  under- 
stand, I wish  to  leave  if  possible  an  agreeable  im- 
pression. Don’t  you  believe,  but  don’t  tell  father 
for  fear  he  should  speak  of  it  in  the  store,  they  are 
stereotyping  this?  Something  Mr.  Putnam  was  saying 
this  morning  led  Mrs.  Putnam  to  ask  the  question, 
and  I understood  him  to  answer  in  the  affirmative. 
Now  he  has  not  read  it  himself,  I know,  for  he  has 
told  me  as  much.  I wonder  if  he  stereotypes  every- 
thing, or  near  everything? 

We  are  invited  to  spend  the  evening  to-morrow 

with  the . ‘Tell’  of  my  going  to  hear  Jenny? 

to  be  sure,  tell  of  it.  It  is  much  too  good  fun  not 
to  be  told.  And  if  people’s  curiosity  is  set  on  fire, 
let  it  burn.  Your  description  of  the  cricket  is  ad- 
mirable. Aunty’s  netted  shawl  has  already  served 
me  beautifully.  Send  me  some  money  quickly,  so 
that  I may  not  be  in  want  of  it. 

11  Thursday.  Send  me  also  your  advice,  for  I want 


304 


Susan  Warner 


it.  I cannot  flatter  myself  that  the  ‘ fortnight  ’ will  see 
much  more  than  half  my  work  done.  Now  what 
shall  I do  with  myself!  It  is  upon  my  mind,  and 
will  not  off,  that  people  do  get  tired  of  guests  that 
stay  a great  while;  and  I am  a business  guest  besides. 
My  pride  has  not  yet  so  risen  on  tiptoe  and  waved 
an  intoxicating  w^and  over  all  my  other  faculties,  that 
I cannot  look  at  possibilities.  Now  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Putnam  are  most  entirely  polite,  kind,  and  pleasant ; 
I am  on  a very  agreeable  footing  in  the  family;  but 
for  all  this,  you  see,  I would  infinitely  rather  they 
should  have  too  little  of  me  than  too  much.  This 
troublesome  feeling  alone  hinders  my  enjoying  my- 
self, and  it  is  a hindrance.  Is  there  anybody  in  New 
York  whom  you  would  counsel  me  to  apply  to  for  a 
week  or  two’s  shelter  on  the  plea  of  unknown  busi- 
ness? Mrs.  Skinner  stands  first  in  my  imagination. 
I would  rather  even  confide  so  much  of  my  secret  as 
Mrs.  B.  knows  to  her,  or  to  somebody  in  that  con- 
fidence, than  be  decidedly  importune  here.  I want 
you  to  advise  me.  I think  perhaps  I shall  just  speak 
my  difficulty  frankly  to  Mrs.  Putnam,  and  ask  her 
to  find  out,  as  she  can,  whether  it  will  best  please 
Mr.  Putnam  to  have  the  last  of  the  proofs  sent  up 
to  me  at  West  Point,  or  that  I should  stay  to  finish 
them  here.  She  is  a person  to  understand  frankness 
and  sense.  I like  and  admire  her  very  much.  I don’t 
want  father  to  say  anything  to  Mr.  P.  about  it.  Write 
me  instantly,  if  you  have  anything  to  suggest,  and 
send  me  a dollar  or  two. 

“I  am  a very  inoffensive  guest,  as  a guest  can  be. 
I spend  all  the  morning,  pretty  much,  in  my  own 
room,  except  when  I am  walking  in  the  yard.  I do 
not  choose  to  run  any  risks  of  embarrassing  the  school 


3°5 


The  Turning  Tide 

with  my  presence.  Then  after  dinner  I go  to  dress, 
and  Mrs.  Putnam  goes  to  the  baby,  and  to  dress,  and 
more  or  less  early  in  the  afternoon  we  meet  to  spend 
the  rest  of  the  day  together.  Yesterday  towards 
evening  we  took  a pleasant  little  walk.  I have  been 
amusing  myself  with  Miss  Sedgwick’s  ‘Clarence’  and 
‘Redwood,’ — dismally  poor.  Mrs.  Putnam  says  she 
does  not  see  where  Miss  Sedgwick  got  her  fame.  We 
agree  nicely  upon  almost  all  subjects  we  talk  upon. 
Mr.  Putnam  is  a character;  one  of  your  quiet,  self- 
possessed,  self-reliant,  self-respecting,  substantial  busi- 
ness men ; very  fond  of  his  business,  his  wife  says,  but 
not  sordidly  so ; very  fond  also  of  the  arts,  she  says;  one 
of  those  who  steadily  keep  their  eye  upon  their  aim, 
and  without  any  noise,  and  in  spite  of  hindrances, 
pursue  and  attain  it.  And  there  is  in  both  of  them 
such  a union  of  self-respect  with  absence  of  pretension. 
Worth  a hundred  fashionables. 

“I  was  up  this  morning  again  when  the  stars  were 
shining,  and  finished  my  proofs.  Last  night  came 
in  our  queer  neighbour  Mr.  J.  with  another  gentle- 
man. He  is  rather  a disagreeable  man,  but  he  wanted 
to  hear  me  play;  he  had  heard  me  through  the  wall 
playing  beautifully  he  said.  So  I played,  and  having 
by  this  time  got  my  fingers  a little  in  order,  I played 
to  the  satisfaction  of  them  all  I believe.  I tell  you, 
for  I know  it  will  give  you  pleasure.  Minny  took 
occasion  to  say  to  me  the  other  day  that  she  liked 
‘Robinson  Crusoe’s  Farmyard’  very  much.  She  is 
a very  intelligent  child.  She  says  people  say  she  will 
be  an  author. 

“I  am  dressed  to  go  to  the  R.’s;  Mrs.  Putnam  has 
gone, — she  explained  to  me  that  their  rooms  are  so 
small  it  would  be  best  for  us  not  all  to  go  to  tea,  and 


3°6 


Susan  Warner 


so  I am  to  follow  by  and  by  with  Mr.  Putnam,  provided 
no  ‘if’  stands  in  the  way,  after  pouring  out  tea  for 
him.  This  arrangement  suits  me  very  well.  This 
afternoon  Mrs.  Putnam  has  been  reading  aloud  again 
in  our  queer  French  book,  ‘Le  bibliotheque  de  mon 
oncle,  ’ wdiile  I have  been  knitting — beginning  a shirt 
for  baby  in  split  zephyr  wool.  Mrs.  P.  is  on  another, 
and  as  it  is  a longish  job  she  is  glad  of  my  help. 

“Dear  Annie,  you  may  guess  I was  glad  of  your 
nice  letter  last  night,  which  I did  not  expect.  It  is 
very  pleasant  to  hear  about  the  S.-  and  dear  little  H. 
My  love  to  them  always.  I thought  of  you  Sunday. 
Be  merry,  sweet  friends.  Take  good  care  of  yourselves. 

“Press  the  matter  of  the  K.  house.  Father  took 
to  that  admirably. 

“I  have  aunty’s  collar  on,  and  your  sleeves  and 
my  blue  silk,  and  my  Bruen — do  you  know  what 
that  is? 

“The  printers  complained  that  I put  in  points,  and 
wanted  absolutely  to  have  the  rest  of  the  manuscript 
revised  with  a view  to  its  punctuation.  Mr.  Putnam 
remarked  to  me  that  my  father  and  I w'ere  not  of  a 
mind  on  this  subject,  referred  to  what  father  had 
said  to  him,  and  told  me  what  the  printers  said.  I 
made  representations.  A day  or  two  after  this  Mr. 
P.  happened  to  be  in  the  printing  office,  and  this 
matter  came  up  again.  Mr.  P.  insisted  on  comparing 
forthwith  a page  of  the  manuscript  with  the  corrected 
proof — it  was  done.  And  he  said  in  every  instance 
where  I had  stricken  out  a point,  the  point  was  not 
in  the  copy.  So  the  compositors  were  called  up, 
reprimanded  for  aught  I know,  and  instructed  to 
follow  copy.  Is  this  letter  long  enough?  Good  night 
dear  father,  aunty,  and  Annie.  Thine,  Susan.” 


3°  7 


The  Turning  Tide 

“ Staten  Island , 4th,  1850. 

“My  dear  Anna.  Aunty  and  father  must  forgive 
me  for  addressing  myself  always  to  you.  In  this 
peculiar  kind  of  letter-writing  it  suits  me  best,  and 
I hope  suits  them  well  enough. 

“I  finished  writing  to  you  last  night  and  had  begun 
to  ‘dilectate’  with  ‘Redwood,’  when  in  came  Mr. 
Putnam  with  a good  bundle  of  proofs.  ‘Redwood’ 
was  immediately  put  away,  and  at  them  I went. 
Presently  came  the  interruption  of  tea.  I presided, 
as  Mrs.  Putnam  had  requested  me  to  do.  After  milk 
toast  and  peaches  and  little  scraps  of  talk  were  got 
through  with,  I went  again  to  my  work.  Towards 
nine  o’clock  we  went  to  the  R.’s,  who  live  just  back 
of  this,  their  house  and  Mr.  B.’s  both  to  be  seen  from 
my  window  at  a very  short  distance.  There  the  A. 
pounced  upon  me,  and  devoured  so  much  of  me  dur- 
ing the  evening  that  not  a vast  deal  was  left  for  other 
people.  Whether  to  ascribe  this  to  my  dawning 
celebrity  or  uncommon  agreeableness  I am  ignorant; 
but  in  either  case  the  prayer  of  Capt.  Mundy’s  ele- 
phant, about  friends  and  enemies,  might  not  be  alto- 
gether inapplicable.  Mrs.  B.  said  I was  smiling  and 
looking  as  happy  as  possible  however. 

“This  morning  I was  again  up  by  starlight, — not 
indeed  before  the  dawn  had  begun  to  break,  but 
while  many  of  the  stars  were  yet  shining.  Hard  at 
work  at  my  proofs  till  breakfast;  and  that  I might 
be  so,  last  night,  late  as  it  was,  I sealed  and  directed 
your  letter  and  basted  a collar  on  a handkerchief. 

“Mrs.  Putnam  hooked  my  dress  yesterday,  and 
gave  me  a pair  of  india-rubber  bands  for  my  under- 
sleeves, having  as  she  said  a supply  of  them.  I could 
not  after  all  quite  finish  my  papers  this  morning — 


3°8 


Susan  Warner 


six  or  seven  pages  left  to  do.  I am  in  the  ‘ant 
and  wood-pigeon’  chapter.  Only  there.  No — the 
tea  at  Alice’s.  It  was  so  entirely  exquisite,  the 
weather  after  breakfast,  that  I even  put  on  my  bonnet 
and  went,  alone,  quite  to  Mrs.  Codwise’s  and  beyond 
it.  I stood  awhile  at  her  gate.  The  place  looked 
very  trim,  but  nobody  is  there;  gates  padlocked, 
house  shut  up.  There  is  a melancholy  look  about 
a place  in  such  a condition,  especially  one  where  you 
have  known  happy  times.  Flowers  in  the  beds  and 
a beautiful  creeper  on  a tree  looked  very  pretty. 
Since  I got  home  I have  been  in  my  own  room  quietly 
busy.  Mrs.  Putnam  and  little  Amy  have  just  been 
in  to  bring  me  a peach. 

11  Saturday,  Oct.  jth.  I have  been  bending  over  the 
little  table  I am  sure  I don’t  know  how  many  hours 
to-day  already.  I might  be  excused,  perhaps,  if  I 
did  not  write  a very  long  piece  of  a letter.  Yesterday 
afternoon  we  took  a walk  to  Silver  Lake — you  did 
not  go  there,  did  you?  It  is  on  the  further  side  of 
those  high  grounds  where  Mr.  Anthon’s  and  Madame 
Grimes’s  houses  are  situated;  so  we  had  quite  a climb- 
ing frolic.  I came  home  tired,  and  found  that  Mrs.  J. 
had  come  in  for  us  to  drink  tea  with  her ; news  that 
gave  me  almost  as  little  pleasure  as  it  did  Mr.  Putnam. 
I do  not  admire  Mr.  J.,  and  his  wife  is  nothing  of  a 
companion.  However  we  must  go,  happily  not  till 
Mr.  Putnam  comes  home.  He  brought  me  a large 
bundle  of  proofs,  and  I took  my  resolution.  The 
tea  drinking  was,  may  I be  pardoned  the  cant,  ex- 
cessively slow.  Seated  at  Mr.  J.’s  left  hand,  I kept 
him  company  in  eating  sardines,  but  had  not  even 
a cup  of  coffee  to  make  it  worth  while  to  be  there. 
Between  tea  and  chocolate  I was  forced  to  choose 


The  Turning  Tide  309 

the  tea,  knowing  I had  "work  to  do,  and  not  daring 
to  slight  the  care  of  my  energies.  A very  little  while 
after  we  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room  I made 
my  apologies  to  Mrs.  J.  and  withdrew,  Mr.  Putnam 
accompanying  me  along  the  balcony  to  the  parlour 
window  of  his  own  house;  and  having  called  for  a 
light  he  left  me.  I took  my  proofs  and  my  candle- 
stick and  went  up  to  my  own  room,  and  there  I worked 
till  my  candle  was  burnt  down.  Then  I slept  like 
a top  till  this  morning,  not  quite  so  early  as  usual, 
for  it  was  light  enough  to  work  several  minutes  before 
I was  ready.  I worked  like  a beaver  till  breakfast. 
I did  not  go  out  to  walk,  in  the  yard  or  elsewhere, 
after  breakfast;  but  in  the  course  of  the  morning  I 
lay  down  on  the  aforesaid  divan  with  my  head  on 
my  pillow  and  took  a good  nap.  Can  you  under- 
stand that,  what  with  watching  and  what  with  work- 
ing and  not  having  too  much  sleep  these  two  nights, 
I might  be  in  "want  of  such  a refreshment? 

“The  sun  has  just  sunk  behind  the  hills.  I have 
been  doing  this  afternoon  what  I hope  I will  never 
do  again — riding  behind  horses  that  have  once  run 
away.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bishop  came  in  their  carriage 
to  take  us;  and  though  I knew  they  had  been  run 
away  with  a few  "weeks  ago,  and  that  these  were  the 
same  horses,  I went  with  Mrs.  Putnam.  I am  thank- 
ful I am  home  safe.  We  had  no  disturbance,  but  I 
had  little  pleasure.  The  horses  have  never  behaved 
well  since  the  accident  happened — we  heard  enough 
about  that  during  our  drive;  and  I thought  and  I 
think,  I will  never  put  myself  in  such  jeopardy  again. 
The  afternoon  has  been  perfection;  but  for  my  fearful 
feeling  how  I should  have  enjoyed  the  drive.  We 
went  round  by  New  Brighton  and  home  by  the  Clove 


3io 


Susan  Warner 


road.  We  are  engaged,  we  and  the  Rhinds  and  the 
Bownes,  I believe,  to  visit  Mrs.  Bishop  next  Tuesday 
afternoon.  People  are  very  polite  and  kind  to  me. 

“It  is  amusing  how  Miss  A.  wants  to  make  an 
‘old  girl’  of  me.  Mrs.  Putnam  said  Mr.  Putnam  was 
laughing  about  it.  She  will  have  it  I went  to  school 
with  Mrs.  M.  I told  Mrs.  Putnam  how  it  was. 

“I  spoke  to  Mrs.  Putnam  frankly  this  morning, 
as  I hinted  I should;  so  I am  at  ease.  The  reply 
was  calculated  to  make  me  so.  She  says  I am  not 
at  all  in  the  way  (indeed  it  is  impossible  for  a stranger 
to  be  less  so)  and  that  my  companionship  is  pleasant 
to  her;  and  that  there  was  so  much  annoyance  with 
Mr.  Irving’s  proofs,  though  they  were  taken  charge 
of  by  a friend.  So  I resolve  myself  quietly  to  be  like 
the  Yankee’s  mill;  and  I have  a great  deal  that  is  very 
agreeable  in  my  way  of  life  here. 

11  Monday,  Oct.  yth.  Yesterday  was  beautiful.  I 
omitted  my  walk  upon  the  piazza,  but  we  had  a beau- 
tiful one  to  church  and  back.  N.B.  I rather  give 
the  A.  a wide  berth.  Dinner  was  rather  late,  waiting 
for  a Mr.  Hunt  who,  however,  did  not  come.  Instead 
of  him  arrived  a Mr.  Grey,  Horace  Grey,  a Bostonian 
formerly, — do  you  know  anything  of  him?  It  was 
curious  to  hear  them  talking  of  Capt.  Grafton  and 
his  sister,  and  of  the  Wormleys.  Mrs.  Putnam  knew 
them  (the  latter)  so  well  abroad,  and  Kate  Wormley 
has  been  a correspondent  of  hers  this  ever  so  long. 
Mr.  Grey  is  nothing  in  particular.  We  had  a long 
dinner  of  three  courses.  The  time  between  dinner 
and  tea  I spent  in  my  room.  When  I went  down 
to  tea  Mrs.  Putnam  told  me  I had  had  an  invitation 
to  chocolate  from  Mr.  J.  His  first  words,  after  due 
salutations,  had  been,  ‘Where ’s  Miss  Warner?’  He 


The  Turning  Tide  31 1 

has,  it  is  said,  $200,000;  and  the  business  of  his  life 
(after  the  care  of  his  money,  which  he  holds  with 
a pretty  tight  grip)  is  looking  after  a young  son  of 
his  not  three  years  old.  His  wife  almost  seems  to 
be  a person  of  less  account  in  his  esteem.  And  he 
has,  this  Mr.  J.,  one  of  the  most  silly  laughs  you  would 
wish  to  hear — what  the  French  call  niaise.  So  you 
see,  however  flattered,  I am  not  much  honoured  by 
his  predilection. 

“My  opinion  of  the  value  of  good  children’s  stories 
is  rather  on  the  increase. 

“Quite  cold  this  morning.  I was  fain  to  put  on 
my  merino.  Finished  my  proofs  as  usual  before 
breakfast.  I had  so  small  a parcel  to  go  over  that 
I allowed  myself  to  lie  in  bed  till  only  a few  stars 
were  left  visible.  There  were  700  competitors  for  the 
prize  for  the  Jenny  Lind  song!  When  told  of  this, 
Jenny,  according  to  Mr.  Putnam,  lifted  up  hands  and 
eyes  exclaiming,  ‘Then  there  will  be  six  hundred  and 

ninety -nine  disappointed.’  E S was  one 

of  the  six  hundred  and  ninety-nine,  and  has  been 
making  a fool  of  himself  since  the  decision,  trying 
to  get  it  in  some  sort  reversed,  or  counter  parted.  Mr. 

Putnam  was  on  the  committee.  He  has  heard  Jenny 
every  single  time  she  has  sung  here.  The  successful 
poet  is  Bayard  Taylor, — the  young  man  who  travelled 
over  Europe  on  foot,  having  but  $150  to  set  out  with; 
you  have  heard  Mrs.  S.  speak  of  him;  she  has  his 
travels,  or  had  them. 

“Query,  as  to  the  expediency  of  writing  every- 
thing to  you,  and  leaving  myself  nothing  to  say.  I am 
in  ‘the  snowstorm.1  Mrs.  Bishop  saw  Mrs.  Codwise 
in  New  York  the  other  day. 

“ Tuesday,  Oct.  8th.  My  dear  Annie,  I got  your 


312 


Susan  Warner 


welcome  letter  last  night.  How  could  mine  have 
been  delayed?  They  went  from  my  hands  in  very 
nice  time,  I think. 

“I  have  thought  in  the  course  of  this  journalising 
for  you  that  my  relations  might  convey  quite  too 
glowing  an  idea  to  your  minds.  Pray  disabuse  them. 
I assure  you  I do  not  feel  much  like  a lion.  On  the 
contrary  I have  rather  too  much  of  your  distrust  of 
my  own  consideration  among  people — rather  spring- 
ing from  pride  than  humility  I am  afraid.  I am 
kindly  and  politely  treated,  certainly;  but  men  and 
women  must  be  brutes  to  refuse  me  that.  As  to  my 
being  ‘appreciated’  and  ‘enjoyed,’  I’ll  promise  you 
nothing.  Father  must  not  expect  anybody  to  equal 
him  in  such  displays  of  discernment  and  good  taste. 
My  music  is  appreciated.  Is  n’t  it  odd  ? Mrs.  Putnam 
was  saying  the  other  evening,  quite  coolly,  and  not 
by  the  way  of  compliment,  that  I seemed  to  draw  out 
the  tones  of  the  instrument  in  such  a manner,  whereas 
other  people  make  a noise;  she  did  n’t  know,  she  said, 
‘whether  it  was  the  choice  of  my  pieces,  or  that  I 
played  so  beautifully.  ’ I confess  such  testimony 
gives  me  pleasure.  Also  Miss  Mary  B.  was  sent  down 
to  hear  me.  This  is  the  day  for  the  grand  entertain- 
ment at  Mrs.  B’s.  It  will  be  quite  a gathering  if  all 
go  that  are  asked.  Mrs.  Putnam  and  I were  going 
on  with  our  ‘Bibliotheque’  and  our  knitting  yesterday 
afternoon,  when  two  of  the  Miss  R’s.  interrupted  us. 
The  evening  spent  in  proofs. 

“Up  again  this  morning  by  starlight.  Then  after 
dressing  I sit  down  correcting,  when  the  sun  is  yel- 
lowing and  flushing  the  white  sides  and  faces  of  the 
houses  seen  from  my  window,  and  touching  the  tree- 
tops.  I put  on  (these  two  mornings)  my  merino  and  big 


The  Turning  Tide  313 

shawl,  and  by  breakfast  time  am  cold  enough.  A cup 
of  good  coffee  would  be  a blessing,  but  we  don’t  have 
it.  I am  unreasonable  to  wish  for  it,  we  have  enough 
other  things;  but  after  two  cups  of  coffee  which  I 
did  have  Sunday  morning,  I saw  everything  in  rose- 
color,  as  I told  Mrs.  Putnam.  Unluckily  it  had  the 
effect  upon  her  of  not  making  her  see  at  all — she  had 
some  trouble  to  find  the  hymn. 

“Miss  Sedgwick’s  novels  are  inexpressible . 

“N.B.  No  Money  came  with  your  letter.  Now 
see  to  it  and  send  me  some  promptly.  I have  two 
or  three  little  odds  and  ends  to  pay. 

“I  am  in  the  ‘Nancy’  chapter — the  sick-room,  you 
know, — and  have  n’t  reached  the  300th  page  yet. 
So  I do  not  think  the  book  promises  to  be  overwhelm- 
ingly big. 

“No  news  of  Aunt  Nancy?  Where  are  all  the 
people?  I am,  since  three  lines  back,  all  dressed 
for  Mrs.  Bishop’s,  and  in  very  good  mood  for  the 
same.  I just  wait  to  finish  and  seal  this  letter  before 
going  down  to  the  parlour  to  let  Mrs.  Putnam  hook 
my  frock.  My  dear  Annie,  dear  father,  dear  aunty 
don’t  I send  you  dry  letters?  Anna’s  are  moistened 
with  some  delightful  drop  of  sentiment,  or  seasoned 
with  something  a little  recherche!  Now  that  sounds 
unfeeling;  but  dear  Annie  I can  understand  your 
‘Thou,’  and  feel  your  dear  little  bit  of  Sevigne  — Gen. 
M.  is  affable.  Dear  little  H.  is  lovely.  My  dear  love, 
to  all  his  family.  I am  multiplying  ‘dears,’  but  never- 
theless my  dear  aunty,  take  good  care  of  yourself,  my 
dear  Annie  take  good  care  of  father ; and  all  of  you  love 
me  much  more  than  I deserve.  Thine, — Oh  thine!’’ 

“ Staten  Island , Oct.  10 , 1850. 

“I  sit  down  to  write  to  you  with  my  faculties  in 


314 


Susan  Warner 


anything  but  working  trim — not  but  that  they  may 
be  fit  enough  for  a letter.  For  aught  I know  that 
goes  on  the  better  when  one’s  wits  are  a little  dreamy. 
Judge  of  the  condition  of  mine  after  you  have  read 
the.  following  recital — nothing  striking,  let  me  premise. 

“ We  rode  in  the  omnibus  to  Mrs.  Bishop’s, — Mrs.  P. 
and  I,  two  Miss  R’s,  Mrs.  B.  and  Miss  A.,  and,  joining 
us  immediately  from  the  boat,  Mr.  Putnam  and  a 
Mr.  MacLachlan,  an  Englishman,  I believe.  Nothing 
striking  in  him  either.  I forgot  Mr.  B.,  who  is  not 
significant.  We  jolted  along,  a drive  of  about  two 
miles,  debouched  at  the  court-yard  gate.  Mrs.  Putnam 
ran  on  ahead,  and  when  we  reached  the  door,  we, 
the  rest  of  the  ladies,  I heard  something  said  about 
putting  the  old  married  ladies  in  front  and  I found 
myself  leading  the  van  with  Miss  A.  I confess  to 
you  I was  childish  enough  to  be  displeased  at  this. 
I rather  sheered  from  my  consort  and  entered  ahead 
of  her.  Trifle  as  this  was,  it  had  somewhat  of  a 
settling  effect  upon  me.  We  made  our  toilets  and 
came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  where  some  of  us 
looked  over  engravings  for  some  time,  in  a sufficiently 
uninteresting  style.  Also  the  most  was  made  of  a 
large  katy-did  occupying  a bunch  of  flowers  on  the 
centre-table,  the  pet  of  the  mistress  of  the  house  — 
for  the  time.  The  Miss  R.s  had  a butterfly  and 
Mrs.  Bishop  a katy-did.  I sat  with  little  to  say  or 
do,  after  the  engravings  had  been  discussed,  till  Miss  A. 
and  I struck  up  a conversation  across  the  centre-table ; 
and  I must  own  the  best  talk  I had  during  the  evening 
was  with  her,  except  a moment  or  two  with  Miss  Clinch. 
Miss  Clinch  was  much  the  most  attractive  woman 
there,  after  Mrs.  Putnam ; not  young,  but  clever  and 
agreeable-looking.  One  Miss  R.  was  rather  stiff  not 


The  Turning  Tide  3*5 

having  enough  substance  to  bend,  and  the  other, 
though  making  noise  enough,  made  little  worth  hearing. 
Mrs.  B.  is  I think  nothing  in  comparison  with  her 
sister.  Mrs.  Putnam  is  a handsome,  lively,  agreeable 
little  woman  as  you  will  wish  to  see.  Mrs.  B.  seems 
a well-meaning,  good-natured  mere  de  famille:  there 
were  also  a German  Mr.  and  Mrs.  T.,  and  the  party 
was  joined  some  time  after  our  arrival  by  Mr.  R.  and 
a Mr.  B. 

“Well — at  last  came  coffee,  two  cups  of  it,  good 
and  strong,  biscuit,  sandwiches,  and  cake.  And  I 
would  have  enjoyed  that  if  I had  not  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  eaten  it  alone,  being  at  the  time  con- 
nected with  nobody.  After  tea  I played — Miss  R. 
sang — neither  very  well — a little  talking — Mrs.  Putnam 
trying  hard  to  get  up  games  and  finding  it  hard  work. 
Mr.  Putnam  at  last  called  upon  me  to  play  something 
more,  and  pressing  it,  I complied  with  my  usual  good- 
nature, and  had  the  satisfaction,  as  usual,  of  hear- 
ing ‘the  piece’  stop  people’s  tongues.  That  blessed 
piece  captivates  all  hearts.  I wish  I had  half  a dozen 
such.  Then  Mrs.  Putnam  got  us  to  playing  hunt 
the  ring,  which  I slightly  detest ; Mr.  Putnam  was  our 
best  player,  really  performing  admirably.  Our  ring 
was  broken  up  by  the  superior  attractions  of  hot 
oysters  and  chicken  salad,  cake,  brandy  peaches,  and 
wine.  After  the  supper  redeeming  the  forfeits, — but 
the  gentlemen  were  refractory,  and  unlike  wise  men 
were  not  willing  to  play  the  fool;  so  it  cannot  be  said 
the  forfeits  went  off  brilliantly.  At  last,  not  at  all 
to  my  sorrow,  the  party  broke  up,  and  we  set  out  on 
our  starlight  walk  home.  This  was  the  best  of 
the  whole  evening.  I don’t  know  in  the  darkling  how 
people  arranged  themselves,  but  I presently  found 


3i6 


Susan  Warner 


myself  with  Miss  A.,  who  inquired  in  a whisper  ‘if  I 
wanted  to  walk  with  that  Englishman?’  intimating 
that  if  I did  she  would  retire,  or  if  I did  n’t  she  would 
stay  by  me, — I don’t  know  which.  Now  as  I had 
no  earthly  objection  to  walking  with  ‘that  English- 
man ’ or  any  Englishman  in  decent  society,  I answered 
without  any  acknowledgment  that  I did  as  I was 
bid.  Presently  Mr.  Putnam,  I think,  took  Miss  A. 
in  tow,  and  he  certainly  called  upon  me  to  take  his 
second  arm;  but  I declined,  saying  that  one  lady 
was  enough  for  a gentleman  to  take  care  of.  So  I 
moved  on  by  myself  among  the  other  people,  till  Mrs. 
Putnam  discovered  I was  alone,  and  called  to  ‘the 
Englishman,’  who  without  any  particular  display  of 
gallantry  had  gone  on  before,  that  ‘here  was  a lady 
astray.’  So  he  had  to  come  back  and  take  charge  of 
the  waif.  We  presently  struck  up  a conversation  and 
went  on  quite  swimmingly,  I enjoying  the  kind  of 
pleasure  one  has  on  breaking  new  soil  to  find  it  is 
not  hard  ground.  Before  we  had  discovered  that  we 
had  talked  out,  Mrs.  Putnam  happily  exchanged 
partners  with  me,  giving  me  Mr.  R.  and  taking  her- 
self Mr.  MacLachlan.  And  Mr.  R.,  who  has  been  all 
over  the  world,  discoursed  to  me  sagely  about  Cali- 
fornia, till  we  reached  our  own  gate.  Mr.  B.  was 
quartered  with  us,  Mr.  MacLachlan  with  Mr.  J.  I left 
the  people  in  the  parlour,  and  taking  my  proofs  went 
up  to  my  room.  And  then,  even  that  night,  late  as 
it  was,  I worked  a while  at  them  before  I went  to 
bed.  A little  overslept  myself,  but  finished  a good 
parcel  of  proofs  for  Mr.  Putnam.  Coffee  in  the  morn- 
ing again.  Meant  to  have  gone  to  see  Miss  A.’s  shells, 
which  she  had  kindly  invited  me  to  do,  but  got  ready 
too  late.  Took  up  the  ‘Red  Rover,’  which  was  lying 


3i7 


The  Turning  Tide 

on  the  table,  and  was  in  a wrapt  state  all  the  after- 
noon,— so  warm,  with  that  and  the  weather  that  I 
dressed  myself  in  white  and  was  comfortable.  O the 
inexpressible  charm  of  the  sea,  and  its  thrilling  adven- 
tures and  chances,  and  the  display  of  fine  character 
in  intelligence,  coolness,  and  command!  The  interest 
of  the  love-story  is  absolutely  nothing — it  is  the  fine 
naval  characters  and  doings.  Enchanting.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
J.  to  tea.  Coffee  again.  And  a great  deal  of  music. 
Mr.  J.  is  really  a deep  and  true  lover  and  apprecia- 
tor  of  fine  music.  Unfortunately  in  his  singing  and 
whistling,  which  he  does  with  feeling  and  a fine  ear, 
he  cannot  rest  without  playing  the  buffoon.  Accord- 
ingly he  either  imitates  the  extravagant  action  of 
the  stage,  or  saws  the  air  with  his  imaginary  bass 
viol  and  violins,  so  that  the  whole  effect  was  ludicrous 
enough.  I had  to  laugh  or  keep  away  my  eyes.  His 
last  achievement  was  crawling  at  full  length  under 
the  sofa,  from  whence  he  cautiously  emerged,  as  the 
thief  in  Don  Giovanni,  or  something  else,  does  from 
his  cover,  singing  the  thief’s  song,  ‘ It  is  time  to 
return!’  I laughed  till  the  tears  came.  Mrs.  J. 
said  I would  grow  fat  if  I stayed  upon  Staten  Island. 
Mr.  J.  kept  me  reading  music — mostly  Handel’s.  He 
will  have  it  all  other  musicians  are  nothing  at  all 
before  him.  He  recommends  to  me  to  ‘addict  myself 
to  Handel’;  if  I do  I shall  be  the  greatest  performer 
in  New  York.  He ’s  an  extravaganza.  But  for  all 
that  he  really  sang  part  of  the  famous  song  in  Handel’s 
‘Samson’ — ‘Oh  Loss  of  Sight,’  etc. — in  a way  that, 
keeping  my  eyes  from  him,  enabled  me  to  form  some 
judgment  of  the  unearthly  beauty  and  grandeur  of 
that  master’s  productions.  He  would  give  the  mu- 
sical introduction  and  interlude  really  exceedingly 


Susan  Warner 


318 

well.  When  they  were  gone,  it  was  eleven.  Too 
late  for  proofs,  and  I had  a large  bundle  of  them. 
I went  to  bed,  thinking  I wanted  to  wake  up  extra 
early.  And  in  truth  I was  at  work  by  candle-light 
some  little  while  before  day  would  serve  me ; I finished 
a good  parcel  of  proofs  by  breakfast  time,  though  I 
have  some  twelve  or  thirteen  pages  to  do  yet.  Coffee 
again  this  morning,  though  too  weak  to  put  any  one 
in  a fever.  Now  have  you  any  correct  notion  of  my 
state  of  body  and  mind  at  present?  And  will  you 
ever  be  able  to  read  this  scrawl?  0 what  a scrawl! 
Many  thanks  for  the  box  and  the  money , and  your 
dear  letter.  I cannot  compliment  father’s  with  being 
any  more  than  a scrap. 

“ Saturday , Oct.  12th.  (Got  no  further.) 

“ Monday , 14th.  I go  back  to  last  week.  Alas! 
You  must  be  expecting  this  letter,  while  it  is  still  on 
the  stocks.  Friday  I wrote  none.  Mrs.  Putnam  was 
going  up  to  the  city,  and  I thought  I would  go  too,  and 
see  if  I could  beat  up  any  friends  for  my  time  of  need- 
We  left  here  in  the  one  o’clock  boat,  and  dining  before 
that,  my  morning  was  no  great  things.  I marched 
straight  up  to  Mr.  Parmley’s  and  made  an  appoint- 
ment for  Wednesday  at  three.  Went  to  C.  C. — not 
at  home.  Found  Mrs.  Skinner — very  cordial — she 
and  the  doctor  at  dinner — he  looking  dismal.  Low- 
spirited  and  that — as  one  of  our  acquaintance  might 
express  it.  I sat  and  talked  a long  time,  till  I thought 
it  was  time  for  me  to  proceed  down  town  again,  to 
meet  Mrs.  Putnam  and  take  the  last  boat  for  the 
Island.  So  down  town  I trudged;  but  Mrs.  Putnam 
had  already  gone  home  in  the  five  o’clock  boat.  Mr. 
Bridges,  one  of  the  young  men  in  the  office,  shewed 
me  to  the  armchair  behind  the  curtain;  and  another 


The  Turning  Tide  319 

clerk,  whom  I afterwards  found  was  Mr.  Saunders, 
knowing  me,  it  seems,  delivered  me  my  bundle  of 
proofs.  Presently  Mr.  Putnam  and  Haven  made 
their  appearance,  and  the  former  took  us  to  the  Fair 
of  the  institute,  whither  Haven  much  wished  to  go. 
I lacked  a knowledge  & the  time,  both,  which  are 
necessary  to  enjoy  it;  so  I did  not  enjoy  it  much. 
During  the  sail  home  Mr.  R.  gave  me  the  pleasure 
of  talking  to  him,  and  of  being  reminded  forcibly 
every  now  and  then  that  his  lungs  enjoyed  the  society 
of  tobacco. 

“Muffins  and  tea,  and  then  proofs. 

“I  learnt  at  tea  that  Miss  Cushman  and  another 
lady  were  coming  to  dine  and  spend  Sunday  night 
here;  and  others  were  probably  to  meet  them.  Je 
pris  mon  parti.  I generously  announced  my  purpose 
of  seeking  quarters  in  the  city  for  the  time  they  should 
be  here.  It  was  not  necessary,  they  said,  but  I knew 
it  was  best.  Mrs.  Putnam  lent  me  a nice  little  travel- 
ling bag;  I buried  myself  in  the  ‘Red  Rover’  all  the 
morning,  then  packed,  dressed,  dined  alone  (Mrs.  P. 
having  gone  to  the  city),  and  finally  took  my  place 
in  the  three  o’clock  boat.  Am  I not  getting  to  be 
a woman  of  business?  Again  I had  Mr.  R.’s  com- 
pany, only  during  the  first  and  latter  part  of  the  sail 
though.  Luckily  he  rode  up,  while  I walked.  I had 
to  stop  and  get  my  proofs.  So  I went  in  at  Mr.  Put- 
nam’s ‘office,’  went  in  behind  the  counter,  and  march- 
ing boldly  up  to  Mr.  Saunders  at  the  desk,  demanded 
my  papers.  Is  n’t  it  comical?  They  were  not  arrived 
from  the  printer,  so  Mr.  S.  obligingly  sent  for  them, 
while  I sat  down  and  waited  in  company  with  Cooper’s 
‘ Deerslayer.’  I saw  Mr.  Putnam,  too,  and  Mr.  Saun- 
ders brought  me  a fine  bundle  of  proofs,  and  then  I 


320 


Susan  Warner 


trudged  on  with  my  heavy  travelling  bag  (I  had  put 
too  much  in  it)  all  the  long  way  up  to  Bleecker  Street. 
I had  misgivings  of  heart  as  I drew  near,  but  however 
I went  on,  and  had  not  the  slightest  reason  to  repent 
it.  Mrs.  Skinner  has  behaved  to  me  with  the  frank 
pleasant  kindness  of  old  times.  After  dinner  Dr. 
Skinner  being  gone  to  Chi  Alpha,  and  J.  taken  his 
moustache  to  see  Mrs.  Viele,  Mrs.  Skinner  lit  the  low 
gaslight  over  the  dining-room  table  for  me,  and  went 
with  the  lamp  into  the  parlour;  and  then  for  ever  so 
long  I corrected  proofs,  and  wrote  the  date,  to  which 
I added  nothing,  in  this  letter.  Dr.  Skinner  greeted 
me  with  pleased  surprise  when  he  came  home  and 
found  me  there.  I told  him  I had  taken  refuge  with 
Mrs.  Skinner.  He  said  he  was  glad  I had,  but  he 
was  ‘sorry’  I had  anything  ‘to  flee  from.’ 

“They  have  not  commenced  as  yet  the  paging  of 
my  second  volume.  There  will  be  about  350  pages 
in  each — not  too  large,  that,  I am  sure.  I am  in 
uncertainty  whether  I shall  see  you  very  soon  or  not 
for  some  time  still.  Mr.  Putnam  was  to  speak  to  the 
printer  about  it.  I told  Mrs.  Putnam  when  I came 
home  to-day  that  I felt  excessively  like  a bad  penny. 
Yours  truly,  S. 

“Mrs.  Skinner  would  have  had  me  stay  with  her 
but  she  has  not  at  this  moment  a servant  to  bless 
herself  with. 

(Written  inside  the  envelope.)  “The  word  or 
the  prospect,  is,  that  the  printers  will  take  as  long 
for  the  second  volume  as  they  have  done  for  the 
first.  Mr.  Putnam  says  if  I like  I might  go  home 
for  a week  or  ten  days,  receiving  proofs  all  the 
time,  and  come  down  again  for  the  finishing,  'when 
my  presence  would  be  most  desirable, — perhaps  to 


321 


The  Turning  Tide 

look  over  the  plate  proofs,  the  contents,  etc.  So  that 
suits  me  delightfully.  And  so , if  nothing  happens, 
as  you  say  Thursday  is  father’s  reference  day  I will 
be  at  Mr.  Putnam’s  office  some  time  before  three 
o’clock,  for  I would  much  wish  to  take  the  early 
afternoon  train.  Father  must,  if  he  pleases,  and  if 
it  is  possible,  arrange  to  meet  me  at  the  said  office 
a little  before  three — I will  have  my  baggage  sent 
to  the  station-house  by  express.” 

Her  old  self  still.  The  dislike  of  trivial  things, 
the  impatience  of  social  manipulations;  the  cool  self- 
possession  with  which  she  “read  music”  (and  such 
music)  to  a stranger.  But  that  she  could  do  splen- 
didly well.  Through  it  all,  the  conscientious  zeal 
with  which  she  kept  up  with  her  work  and  finished 
her  proofs  on  time,  even  rising  “by  starlight”  if  need 
were,  to  correct  them.  She  was  at  Staten  Island 
some  three  weeks;  but  the  rest  of  the  proofs  were 
done  at  home.  We  had  both  wished  to  keep  our 
names  in  hiding:  and  so  when  it  came  time  for  a title 
page,  we  borrowed  from  two  of  our  great  grand- 
mothers,— I going  before  the  world  as  “Amy  Lothrop  ” ; 
while  for  a long  time  my  sister  was  known  chiefly  as 
“ Elizabeth  Wetherell.” 


CHAPTER  XVI 


WRITING,  WRITING 

Two  or  three  weeks  after  her  return  from  Staten 
Island,  a new  journal  book  opens  thus: 

“ Oct.  jo.  Aunt  F.,  A.,  and  I took  a pleasant  ramble 
this  afternoon.  Sat  on  the  rock  over  ‘ Eureka’,  and 
saw  the  Alida  go  down.  A.  had,  as  usual,  her  little 
basket  and  picked  up  hickory  nuts  and  butternuts, 
and  we  stopped  here  and  there  to  crack  and  eat;  the 
sweet  pennyroyal  reminding  one  of  Canaan.  A very 
beautiful  day — the  hills  in  very  rich  colour — many 
of  the  leaves  are  off  the  trees;  those  remaining  being 
of  a uniform  warm  hue,  red  brown,  and  orange;  mel- 
lowed and  rich  where  the  sun  catches  them.  Looking 
towards  the  western  shore,  the  slopes  and  hollows 
of  the  hills  were  very  much  in  a hazy  neutral  tint, 
but  the  tops  and  ridges  shew'ing  the  sun-lit  colouring 
were  exquisitely  marked  out  by  it,  unless  here  and 
there  where  the  sun  could  not  come,  and  an  edge  of 
deeper  and  more  defined  shadow  stood  out  upon  the 
warm  mountain  side  beyond.  Oaks,  some  of  them,  in 
mingled  green  and  brown  still;  hickories  orange  and 
brown.  A large  flat  grey  rock,  spotted  with  black 
moss,  and  at  the  edge  of  it,  springing  from  a heap  of 
dead  leaves  and  fruit -ripened  cacti,  some  bunches  of 
the  pink  corydalis.  Warm,  or  rather  mild,  with  a 
somewhat  chill  south  breeze,  per  favour  of  which  the 
sloops  walked  up  very  prettily.  I went  up  and  down 
the  walk  before  the  house  a long  wdiile,  weaving.” 


Writing,  Writing  323 

“Weaving”  the  threads  of  her  next  book,  Queechy. 
And  there  follows  a “brief,”  to  use  the  lawyer’s  word, 
of  the  first  chapters;  covering  a page  and  a half  of 
the  journal.  A' few  sentences  may  amuse  the  reader. 

“A.  and  her  grandfather — G.  Carleton  and  nutting 
— Bryant’s  ‘ Death  of  the  Flowers  ’ — Frank’s  raillery 
on  what  Mr.  Carleton  had  been  about — Mr.  C.’s  reply 
that  Mr.  C.  would  be  a better  man  if  he  were  oftener 
about  the  same,  &c.  Hall  and  A.  and  Mr.  C.’s  inter- 
ference— the  present  of  birds  shot,  and  A.’s  taking 
of  it.” 

So  she  runs  on,  mapping  out  roughly  perhaps  a 
third  of  the  book.  I do  not  know  what  was  her  first 
chosen  name  for  the  heroine;  only  an  initial  is  given 
here.  Then  the  journal  begins  again,  but  with  no 
new  date. 

“We  are  contemplating  an  attack  upon  father  in 
the  way  of  a conversation,  to  find  out  what  may  be 
his  purposes  for  the  coming  winter,  for  at  present 
we  are  in  a dismal  state  of  incertitude.  If  we  wish 
to  spend  the  winter  at  West  Point,  arrangements 
cannot  be  too  soon  made;  if  at  New  York,  ditto;  if 
here,  ditto.  But  till  we  know,  nothing  can  be  done. 
West  Point  promises,  could  we  but  get  there,  by  far 
the  most  pleasure;  New  York  the  most  advantage 
in  the  way  of  work  and  facilities  for  work;  the  Island, 
alas!  looks  to  me  a dismal  place  for  us  to  be  locked 
up  in  for  the  winter;  without  a grown  servant,  with- 
out books,  without  a piano,  without  church,  without 
a friend’s  face,  without  anybody  to  get  wood  but 
father,  without  resources  to  draw  upon  but  the  Bible, 
the  Penny  Cyclopaedia,  and  imagination ; without 
ready  money  to  go  to  market,  without  earning  any- 
thing, without  any  brilliant  prospects  for  the  future, 


32  4 


Susan  Warner 


unless  indeed  the  Wide  World  should  prove  to  us  a 
richer  storehouse  than  it  does  to  most  people.  Well, 
we  are  strangely  cool,  but  it  may  be  in  part  because 
we  are  strangely  cold.  I have  been  all  but  thinking 
of  a governess’s  place — anything  but  living  on  nothing, 
or  on  borrowed  money.” 

Certainly  “imagination”  was  not  cold,  when  she 
wrote  this,  depicting  in  most  vivid  fashion,  as  she 
liked  to  do,  whatever  there  was  of  good  or  evil.  But 
there  was  no  evil  on  its  way  to  us;  and  the  blessed 
things  in  store,  those  she  could  not  imagine.  There 
was  many  a sweetness  in  our  life,  even  then. 

“Nov.  i.  A.  sent  a bouquet  of  flowers  to  Rebecca, 
in  which  were  the  following:  Roses,  Agrippina,  La- 
marque,  and  Monthly,  most  lovely  together — sweet 
scabious,  of  two  or  three  colours,  dark  and  very  rich, 
beautiful  purplish  rose,  and  light  bluish  purple;  ver- 
benas of  nine  or  ten  colours,  or  shades  of  colour — 
Gilias,  Xeranthemums,  of  two  colours,  yellow  and 
white;  Sweet  Alyssum,  Mignonette,  Woodbine, — pretty 
well  for  the  open  air  at  this  season. 

“ Nov.  2.  The  threatened  conversation  was  held 
yesterday  morning.  A.  left  it  pretty  much  to  me. 
It  issued  in  little  satisfaction  beyond  the  two  facts, 
that  Father  thinks  of  goingto  New  York  for  the  winter, 
and  does  not  think  (so  far  as  appears)  of  going  into 
any  business  to  maintain  us  there.  His  book — and 
the  property  here — and  some  incoming  costs  wdiich 
will  actually  accrue  nobody  can  possibly  tell  when — 
voila  tout!  I have  been  again  this  evening  seriously 
debating  the  question  of  a governess’s  place,  but  A. 
is  against  it,  and  so  are  several  considerations.  The 
difficulty  of  securing  time  enough  to  write — the  name- 
less and  unknown  annoyances  inseparable  from  such 


Writing,  Writing  325 

a situation  (Anna  imagines  me  tagging  down  Broad- 
way with  six  children  after  me),  the  breaking  up  of 
our  home  circle — and  not  least  in  my  regard,  the 
unhappy  effect  upon  one’s  mind  and  character.  O,  I 
should  dread  that.  A.  advises  that  we  go  on  working 
at  home,  and  let  things  come  to  a crisis  if  they  will, 
and  in  that  determination  I believe  I shall  rest  my 
mind  for  the  present.  But  alas!  home  has  ceased 
to  be  very  lovely  to  me.  How  I do  enjoy  myself 
when  I get  away  from  it! 

“I  am  correcting  the  proofs  of  my  book — a great 
pleasure  almost  over.  I began  six  weeks  ago,  and 
three  of  them  have  been  spent  with  Mrs.  Putnam  on 
Staten  Island.  It  seems  likely  now  that  they  will 
not  want  me  down  there  again  for  this  business. 
I finished  to-day  the  267th  page  of  the  2nd  volume. 
How  odd,  how  odd  it  is!  That  it  should  actually 
have  come  to  this  after  all  my  waiting  and  doubting! 
It  is  a real  and  very  great  present  blessing.” 

A page  and  a half  of  Queechy  “brief”  comes 
next.  Then: 

“ Nov.  5.  No  proofs  this  two  days,  failing  which 
I am  apt  to  feel  like  a person  a little  thrown  out  of 
working  habits  by  too  much  excitement  or  pleasure. 
Accordingly,  or  however  it  be,  I have  done  nothing 
to-day  but  read  ‘The  Caxtons’  aloud  to  Aunty  and 
Anna,  and  take  with  them  and  Emmeline  and  Sam 
a long  ramble  in  the  woods.  Over  the  rough  ground 
of  this  Island,  up  one  stony  declivity  and  down  another, 
the  surface  an  alternation  of  stones  and  dead  leaves, 
the  ground  under  the  last  being  near  or  far  from  the 
foot'  as  the  case  might  be.  Anna,  with  her  little  basket, 
gathering  hickory  nuts,  butternuts,  and  the  superb 
many-coloured  leaves  of  the  woods.  Sometimes  stop- 


Susan  Warner 


326 

ping  to  crack  and  eat  a nut  or  two,  which  tasted  strong 
of  Canaan,  and  perhaps  between  the  nuts  might  come 
up  the  sweet  breath  of  a pennyroyal  near  by.  Thick 
fog  enveloping  the  distance  and  softening  the  vicinity. 

“Mem.:  that  we  burn  tallow  candles  these  many 
weeks ; our  oil-can  being  at  the  grocer’s  and  no  money 
existing  to  fetch  it  thence  full.  That  Mrs.  Miller  is 
yet  unpaid  for  Marvin’s  board  of  a month,  and  Sam 
has  not  had  a cent.  That  father  wants  clothes  imme- 
diately, and  we  proximately.  That  he  has  got  ready 
money  from  Smith  for  his  journeys  to  New  York,  till 
we  don’t  know  on  which  side  is  the  debtor ;s  account, 
father  having  luckily  done  law  business  for  him.  That 

father  has  also  borrowed  from  Mr. . And  that 

I have  last  night  suggested  the  expediency  of  father’s 
taking  an  office  at  once;  which  proposition  he  seemed 
gravely  to  entertain.  He  is  in  the  city  now  for  to-day 
and  to-morrow  perhaps,  and  perhaps  more.” 

Then  Queechy  “ brief.” 

“Nov.  7.  Father  came  home,  and  not  very  bright, 
or  with  not  particularly  bright  news.  Yet  nothing 
very  gloomy  either,  only  he  has  somehow  rather 
quieted  my  spirits.  I got  my  last  proof  today,  the 
end , as  a note  on  the  margin  from  the  printer  com 
siderately  informed  me.  Mr.  Putnam  told  father  he 
was  afraid  the  book  would  be  too  large  still;  a pleasant 
and  inspiriting  kind  of  remark,  seeing  that  in  the  first 
place  it  is  all  set  up,  and  in  the  second  place  if  it  were 
not,  it  would  be  impossible  to  abridge  it  much  except 
by  horrible  mutilation.  So  my  spirits  were  quieted, 
which  before,  under  the  influence  of  plenty  of  proofs, 
‘The  Caxtons,’  and  the  prospect  of  father’s  taking  an 
office,  the  prettiest  little  dinner  in  the  world  which 
we  had  today  of  coffee  and  drop  cakes,  and  a pleasant 


Writing,  Writing  327 

walk  up  and  down  in  the  fine  fresh  evening  air, — my 
spirits,  I say,  were  tolerably  near  par. 

“ F. — at  the  S.’s;  told  father  that  when  A.  answered 
her  letter  she  would  come  up  and  spend  a day  with 
her.  Cool,  and  how  cool  such  things  make  me, — and 
Anna ; albeit  she  be  a far  less  good  conductor  of  mental 
caloric  than  myself. 

“Alas,  my  poor  little  book, — art  thou  too  big? 

“The  beautiful  landscape  in  the  beautiful  stillness 
this  evening  after  sunset — the  crescent  moon  high  in 
the  southwest,  and  one  bright  star  beneath — God’s 
temple — how  fine — how  fair — all  things  there  obey 
him — the  moon  and  the  stars  and  every  flying  cloud 
move  in  the  paths  he  has  pointed  out  to  them.  Man 
is  the  only  blot  on  the  picture.  There  is  a spring 
loose,  and  the  whole  machine  is  out  of  order. 

“Oh  my  book!  If  this  should  fail,  I might  not 
be  able  to  go  on  writing.  God’s  will  be  done. 

11  Nov.  11.  Hills  quite  bare — only  here  and  there 
a spot  of  reddish  brown.  Yet  not  dreary,  in  the 
beautiful  weather  of  these  two  days, — quiet,  mild, 
a delicious  softness  flung  over  the  landscape,  whether 
of  air  or  light,  or  both — the  gentleness  of  winter’s 
extended  hand.  The  European  maple  at  the  foot  of 
the  lawn  is,  and  has  been  for  some  days,  most  beau- 
tiful; mingled  green  and  gold  its  leaves  are,  but  from' 
a little  distance  only  gold — a bright  glowing  spot 
when  everything  else  is  dim,  the  leaves  beneath  it 
like  a dash  of  sunlight  on  the  ground.  Weeping  ash 
green  yet;  elm  ditto,  though  turning.  Roses  and 
scabious  and  sweet  Alysum  hanging  their  leaves  after 
so  much  frost — it  is  time — verbenas  in  good  colour 
yet,  and  little  Johnny  Jumpers  as  pert  and  hardy 
as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  frost  ever  in  the 


328 


Susan  Warner 


world.  A week  ago  the  hills  were  yet  lovely;  very 
many  of  the  trees  bare  indeed,  but  enough  left  in 
yellow  and  reddish  brown  to  give  a rich  warm  tint 
to  the  hillside.  And  the  soft  November  air  and  light 
are  very  beautifying.  Yet  it  is  chilly  today  withal, 
and  I think  promises  snow.  Anna  writing  and  I 
weaving.  May  a blessing  be  on  both!” 

Queechy  “brief.”  “The  hints  to  C.  about  the 
country  admirer — acted  upon  by  him  in  grave  and 
observant  waiting” — And  so  on,  for  near  two  pages. 

“Nov.  12.  No  lamp  oil  yet.  We  are  burning  up 
our  tallow,  and  then  I suppose  the  children  may  bum 
the  oil.  We  cannot  indulge  in  chickens  because  we 
cannot  afford  to  feed  Sam  and  Emmeline  on  them. 
We  are  like  to  want  bonnets  and  out-of-door  gar- 
ments, and  we  know  not  yet  when  or  where  we  shall 
get  the  money. — Father  is  very  busy;  trying  for  a 

rehearing  of  his  G case,  to  obtain  which  he  must 

find  two  sureties  in  the  amount  of  $5,000  to  secure 
the  interest  accruing  since  last  April,  and  which  a 
sale  of  the  property  might  fail  to  liquidate  in  case 
of  the  rehearing;  trying  to  make  arrangements  to 
sell  the  property,  a heavy  task  I fear;  writing  for 
the  Observer,  from  which  writing  is  to  come  the  rent 
for  McLean.  N.B.  If  Cronk  had  not  broken  into 
the  house  last  winter  there  is  no  telling  where  we 
should  have  found  the  first  fifty  dollars  of  our  rent, 
which  Cronk’s  brother  paid  to  father,  by  way  of 
damages.  In  all  this  business,  and  more,  of  course, 
offices  and  references  are  not  seen  to;  no  knowing 
how  things  wdll  be,  or  where  we  shall  be,  if  we  live. 
We  cannot  go  surely  without  some  provision  ascer- 
tained for  our  board.  Meanwhile  I make  myself 
pretty  quiet,  only  I am  or  have  been  worrying  over 


Writing,  Writing  329 

my  new  thread  which  I am  afraid  wants  knotting. 
Also  want  of  wood,  and  Father  has  no  time  this  week, 
nor  for  the  first  half  of  next,  to  get  us  any;  we  must 
depend  upon  Sam;  and  suppose  there  came  a snow? 
Tonight,  and  today,  burning  willow  wood  that  will 
not  bum.  Anna  wanting  spirit,  and  I — I don’t  know 
what  I would  do  but  for  writing,  and  yet  even  that 
doth  not  much  rejoice  me.  I hope  it  will  be  better 
when  I get  at  it.” 

This  sounds  (what  I could  not  else  have  said)  as 
if  “Queechy”  was  pretty  well  mapped  out  before  she 
really  began  the  writing.  The  brief  goes  on. 

“C.  obliged  to  go  to  England — asks  A.  to  go  with 
him — she  cannot — then  he  will  leave  his  mother  to  look 
after  her,  and  return  as  soon  as  possible” — &c.,  &c. 

But  it  was  a sort  of  back  and  forth  map;  for  just 
here,  following  the  above,  come  bits  of  the  winter 
journey  home,  and  the  ministry  of  the  fur  cloak. 

11  Nov.  ig.  Father  going  down  this  morning — the 
watch  ran  down  in  the  night,  so  we  had  to  rise  very 
early  lest  we  should  be  belated.  It  was  very  early. 
I had  some  time  to  myself  before  breakfast,  in  the 
dark,  then  the  pleasant,  pleasant  candle-light  meal, 
in  our  little  sitting-room;  and  plenty  of  time  after- 
wards for  me  to  do  up  my  butternuts  for  Mrs.  Putnam, 
and  for  Anna  to  write  to  another  Mrs.  Putnam,  Fanny, 
and  choose  out  the  cards  for  her ; almost  all  this  before 
we  blew  the  candles  out.  Why  was  it  so  very  pleas- 
ant, all  this  early  candle-light  doing?  It  is  stirring, 
it  promises  a long  day,  it  is  cozy,  the  servants  are  not 
up,  it  is  cheerful,  for  it  wants  the  associations  that 
cluster  about  the  daylight  and  the  evening  hours; 
it  is  new  time, — fresh  and  unspoiled;  it  is  additional 
time,  redeemed  from  sleep  and  nothingness;  the  sun 


33° 


Susan  Warner 


is  not  up  yet,  saying  ‘work’!  but  the  long  shadows 
from  the  setting  moon  lie  yet  on  the  lawn  saying  ‘ It 
is  not  time  yet, — what  you  do  now  is  clear  gain.’ 
Sweet  early  rising  by  moonlight!  after  one  is  up  and 
dressed. 

“Yesterday  afternoon  came  a notice  from  McLean 
to  quit  the  premises  immediately,  according  to  the 
terms  of  the  bond,  because  the  quarter’s  rent  is  not 
paid  within  the  ten  days  after  it  became  due.  Happily 
Father  was  not  in  New  York,  so  he  walked  up  to 
McLean’s  by  moonlight  (which  Anna  was  afraid  to 
have  him  do)  and  told  him  how  he  had  been  disap- 
pointed. So  McLean  for  very  shame  could  do  no 
more.” 

(The  property  at  this  time  was  in  the  hands  of  a 
receiver.)  “Aunt  F.  was  excited  and  worried;  A.  and 
I pretty  quiet.  While  Father  was  gone,  Aunty  was 
saying  something  about  suspense,- — ‘if  we  were  only  rid 
of  suspense!’  ‘But  don’t  you  think,’  said  A.  submis- 
sively, ‘we  ought  to  get  accustomed  to  suspense?’ 
They  thought  Father  was  away,  and  very  likely  meant 
to  carry  their  threat  out. 

“Nov.  22.  Have  finished  today  my  first  chapter. 
I wonder  how  it  will  work  out.  Our  Penny  Cyclo- 
paedia we  have  got  this  week,  but  my  book  is  not  out 
nor  have  I learnt  the  fate  of  my  prize  essay.  Not  too 
much  at  once;  but  if  I do  not  get  said  Fifty  Dollar 
prize,  I do  not  know  where  A.  and  I,  to  say  nothing 
of  Aunt  Fanny,  are  to  get  winter  hats  and  cloaks, 
&c.,  &c.  We  do  not  know  yet  either  in  the  least 
where  we  shall,  if  we  live,  spend  the  winter.  But 
I thank  God  for  such  pleasant  work,  and  means  to 
work,  as  we  enjoy.  If  we  only  have  his  blessing  on 
our  work,  it  will  do.” 


Writing,  Writing  331 

Queechy  brief: — “First  evening  of  A’s  seeing  Mr. 
C.,  &c.” 

“ Nov.  2$.  We  cannot  go  to  West  Point  this  winter 
— no  place  for  us.  So  it  lies  between  New  York  and 
here.  Father  says  New  York,  but  he  is  not  in  busi- 
ness yet,  and  we  cannot  go  till  he  is,  and  nothing  is 
yet  done  about  rooms.  So  there  we  are.  Shirts 
wanting,  and  no  cotton — cloaks  and  bonnets  and 
dresses  wanting,  and  no  money.  I am  writing,  writ- 
ing; have  no  idea  of  how  much  worth.” 

“Nov.  jo.  Saturday.  State  of  affairs:  Two  sticks  of 
wood  left,  and  two  fires  to  keep  up  besides  Father’s; — 
tomorrow  the  first  of  December,  and  a great  gouge 
in  the  axe,  rendering  it  difficult  to  cut  with  it  at  all ; — 
less  than  two  pounds  brown  sugar  in  the  house — ditto 
white — one  whole  sperm  candle  left,  and  a small 
quantity  of  tallow — no  oil  that  will  burn.” 

Q.  brief.  “The  Bible  authority  for  English. — 
Christmas  evening” — &c. 

“Dec.  7.  Saturday  evening.  Father  brought  home 
word  that  I have  gained  the  prize  for  the  patriotism 
essay.  One  of  my  first  thoughts,  the  wish  that  there 
was  somebody  to  tell  it  to.  He  had  been  too  busy 
to  go  to  Putnam’s,  so  don’t  know  if  my  book  is  out 
yet.  Not  too  many  things  at  once.  Has  been  rainy 
and  sleety  weather  this  two  or  three  days,  and  poor 
little  Sam  out  getting  wood  ever  so  long  today.  How 
to  stay  here,  or  how  to  go  to  New  York,  both  seem 
a little  inexplicable.  No  rooms  seen  yet,  that  I have 
heard  of — no  references  actually  taken.  One  may 
as  well  sing  Vogue  la  galtre. 

“Dec.  Q.  Sky  threatening  snow;  we  went  out, 
every  one  of  us,  Sam  and  Emmeline  and  all,  up  on 
the  South  Crag,  and  there  drew  bunches  of  dry  stuff 


332 


Susan  Warner 


and  pitched  them  over  the  rock  where  Sam  could  get 
them  at  his  leisure; — light  firewood,  but  better  than 
nothing.  Got  a fine  exercise  and  walked  after- 
wards. Our  late  dinner  was  just  ready,  coffee  at  the 
fire,  a dish  of  liver,  covered  up,  hot  graham  cakes, 
celery,  on  the  table,  when  Mr.  S.  knocked  at  the  outer 
door.  I looked  through  the  window  and  saw  it  was 
he.  None  of  us  were  dressed.  Aunty  in  a fit  of 
distraction,  trying  to  get  out,  with  no  reason  in  the 
world  knocked  over  first  my  desk  and  then-  Anna’s 
chair,  and  then  succeeded  in  making  her  escape.  I 
went  too  to  dress.  Anna  picked  up  desk  and  chair 
and  let  him  in.  I dressed  and  came  down,  but  the 
whole  affair  had  an  air  of  a kind  of  sadness. 

“Dec.  10.  A.  and  I went  out  and  gathered  dry 
branches  again,  or  I don’t  know  what  we  should  have 
done.  Writing  away,  she  and  I,  hard. 

“Dec.  ii.  Father  came  home  without  my  book — ■ 
was  to  have  come  from  the  bookbinders  today,  but 
had  not.  Mrs.  Cod  wise  had  been  dwelling  for  two 
days  on  the  proposal  that  we  should  occupy  their 
cottage  on  Staten  Island  for  the  winter!  There  is 
good  society  there,  she  says!  Does  she  think  we 
have  grown  Polar  bears,  in  our  poverty  ? . . . Nobody 
seems  anxious  to  know  whether  we  are  coming  to 
town,  except  dear  Miss  Murray.  Those  people!  Anna 
says  one  can  understand  how  Sodom  might  have  been 
spared  if  there  had  been  ten  righteous  men  in  it.  Out 
pulling  branches  today  in  the  snow — A.  and  Sam 
and  I. 

“Dec.  15.  Snowing  in  the  morning  by  turns,  so 
that  we  feared  we  might  not  be  able  to  go  to  church, 
but  quiet  and  pleasant — concluded  to  venture, — A. 
and  father  and  I.  The  rather  depressing  effect  of 


Writing,  Writing 


333 


going  over  there  walking  through  the  people,  through 
such  a heyday  of  life,  as  A.  says,  and  yet  not  touching 
it.  We  go  in  and  come  out,  and  the  effect  rather  is 
that  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  world.  Every 
human  tie,  out  of  our  quartette,  is  so  broken  and 
fastened  off,  as  A.  said.  Five  years  ago,  and  we  were 
hardly  left  at  home  two  or  three  evenings  in  a month 
(with  the  Church  evenings),  and  now  nobody  almost 
is  anything  to  us. 

11  Dec.  ij.  Expected  my  book  by  Father.  In  the 
afternoon  got  nicely  washed  and  dressed  a little  before 
it  was  time  for  him  to  be  home.  The  pleasant  mo- 
ments of  waiting  for  something  pleasant,  when  one’s 
business  is  put  away  or  done  up  and  one  sits  down 
to  be  quiet.  But  the  engine  was  out  of  order  this 
evening,  and  he  was  late  after  all.  He  brought  my 
books!  All  of  us  charmed  with  the  beautiful  style 
in  which  they  are  brought  out.  One  lovely  red- 
edged  copy  I gave  to  Anna  for  a Christmas  present ; 
and  she  said  she  had  seen  nothing  in  a long  while 
that  had  so  reminded  her  of  old  Christmas  times  as 
the  look  of  those  red  edges. 

“ Dec . 22.  Sunday.  Perfectly  quiet  weather,  chilly 
and  looking  snow-fashion.  We  went  to  church.  But 
somehow  it  was  not  enlivening.  Did  n’t  have  a very 
good  sermon,  that  would  have  been  enlivening.  I was 
in  rather  a nice  mood  as  to  letting  the  world  wag 
and  not  minding  things,  and  so  I went,  and  so  I came 
back,  and  yet  whether  we  talked  ourselves  into  it 
or  however  it  was,  somehow  the  infection  reached 
me  after  all.  We  were  at  the  house,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  remember  with  particular  pleasure  after 
we  came  away.  Our  spirit  thermometers,  Anna’s 
and  mine,  would  both  seem  to  indicate  a fall  of  tern- 


334 


Susan  Warner 


perature  these  two  Sundays  ....  Mrs. asked 

us  to  come  there  Christmas  day,  telling  Aunty  also 
that  she  gave  all  her  servants  leave  to  go  away.  N.  B. 

We  do  not  want  to  go,  nor  mean  to.  Mr. said 

as  we  were  coming  away,  he  would  not  ask  us  till 
he  knew  whether  he  would  have  a turkey  to  give 
us.  . . . Well,  I took  it  all  pretty  quietly,  and  yet 
after  I got  home  I felt  cold,  and  continued  in  a kind 
of  cold  fit  most  of  the  day.  A dismal  kind  of  feeling, — 
when  what  should  be  the  warm  moving  currents  of 
feeling  seem  to  stand  still  at  their  source ; tears  enough 
to  wet  my  eyes,  not  to  run  over.  O world!  what  a 
strange  world  it  is!  . . . This  is  a poor  state  of  feel- 
ing— and  with  all  the  delightful  and  most  uncommon 
good  things  that  fill  our  lot!  But  somehow  some- 
times it  is  like  the  beauty  of  a winter  landscape — 
cold  and  calm — calm  because  there  are  no  leaves  to 
flutter  and  no  birds  to  sing. 

“Dec.  jo.  A lovely  winter  day — a fresh  snow 
fallen  to  the  depth  of  four  inches.  Anna  and  I want- 
ing exercise  went  out,  and  shovelled  it  from  a long 
piece  of  the  path.  The  sky  an  intense  blue,  even  in 
the  south,  and  down  to  the  horizon — a little  flake 
of  a cloud  upon  it — -the  snow  most  exquisite — very 
light  and  dry,  in  the  early  morning,  sparkling  as  if 
set  with  millions  of  diamonds;  the  long  shadows  of 
tree  and  hill  very  blue,  almost  Prussian  blue;  the 
ice  piled  up  at  the  boat-house,  and  now  and  then 
the  floating  ice  carried  about  by  the  tide  making  a 
pleasant  crackling  sound.  We  had  a fine  exercise — 
spirited  young  ladies — doing  what  others  would  not 
do,  either  from  want  of  energy,  or  fear  of  compro- 
mising themselves.  Tambouring  a collar  for  Emmeline 
and  one  for  her  mother. 


Writing,  Writing  335 

“Dec.  31.  Did  not  go  out.  Anna  had  cake  to 
make.  I made  bread  for  Aunt  Fanny,  and  then 
went  to  tambouring.  Father  came  at  midday — 
brought  a quantity  of  things  for  us  from  Mrs.  Little, — 
a fine  turkey,  three  cocoanut  and  mince  pies,  cakes 
and  cookies,  a card  of  iced  sponge  cake — McCheyne 
for  me,  and  Rutherford  to  stay  a while.  Dear  Anna 
had  charged  Father  to  get  McC.  for  me  on  her  account, 
and  she  had  meant  to  please  herself  with  surprising 
me,  putting  it  on  my  chair  tomorrow  morning  for 
me  to  find  when  I came  down.  I would  have  been 
much  gladder  of  all  these  good  things  if  I had  been 
sure  of  the  motive  that  sent  them, — doubting  it  to 
be  for  easing  of  her  conscience;  and  lacking  the  prin- 
ciple of  kindness  to  move  my  gratitude,  I did  not 
feel  very  bright,  and  could,  I think,  have  cried  if  I 
had  been  alone.  Am  I growing  misanthropical?,, 

No,  not  that.  But  we  had  been  testing  our  friends 
in  a rather  severe  and  searching  way;  and  the  heart 
that  was  always  so  unselfishly  true  to  others,  felt 
disappointed  and  sore.  Weary,  too,  I fancy,  with 
long  privation  and  hard  pressure.  But  she  goes  on: 

“Much  interested  and  pleased  with  the  notices  of 
the  ‘Wide,  Wide  World’  that  Father  brought  home; — • 
wish  I could  feel  sure  of  succeeding  proportionately 
as  well  in  my  next.  Also  my  prize  essay  came  home, 
but  Father  did  not  get  the  money  for  it — next  week. 
So  he  did  not  get  the  desk  I wanted  for  Annie.  I felt 
happily  among  all  these  things,  or  thought  I did,  that 
Christ  was  the  only  pillar  of  my  hope  and  happiness. 
Prayer  very,  very  happy  tonight. 

11  Jan.  1.  It  was  a pretty  thing,  the  reading  of  the 
notices  of  my  work  that  Father  had  brought  home, — 
from  the  Evening  Post , Boston  Chronotype,  Com - 


336 


Susan  Warner 


mercial,  and  Literary  World.  The  three  first,  which 
Father  had  copied  out,  were  already  read — there  was 
some  delay  about  cutting  the  leaves  of  the  other. 
I had  gone  upstairs,  and  I heard  such  a shout!  and 
coming  down,  Anna  opened  the  door  to  tell  me  they 
had  given  me  a column  and  a half!  and  an  extract!  ! 
It  must  not  be  read  till  Aunty  came,  who  also  had 
left  the  room,  and  Father’s  manifest  eagerness  to  get 
and  keep  hold  of  it  was  such  that  A.  relinquished 
the  pleasure  to  him.  Aunty  and  Anna  so  interested, 
even  excited,  and  I too,  though  taking  it  outwardly, 
perhaps,  more  quietly.  But  I lay  awake,  and  thought 
about  it  after  I went  to  bed.  Thank  God  for  every 
promise  of  success  and  encouragement;  and  oh!  for 
the  spirit  to  thank  him,  should  both  fail!” 

Was  it  any  wonder  we  were  excited  ? 

“This  is,”  said  the  learned  Evening  Post , “a  regular 
two- volume  novel  by  a native  author,  but  whether 
an  old  or  a young  hand,  we  are  unable  to  say.” 

“It  will  be  popular,  or  we  are  much  mistaken,” 
wrote  the  Commercial  Advertiser. 

“It  will  be  a very  popular  fireside  book,”  adds  the 
Chronotype;  the  Literary  World  copied  in  a long 
extract  from  Miss  Fortune’s  “Bee.”  Could  New 
Year’s  day  help  being  bright?  She  says: 

“Today  quiet  and  pretty  happy,  because  my  mind 
was  so.  Working  a good  part  of  the  day  at  Mrs. 
Miller’s  collar,  which  at  last  finished.  . . . We  have 
done  little  to  celebrate  the  day,  beyond  giving  the 
neckerchief  and  a plate  of  cake  to  our  neighbours 
(in  the  tenant  house),  and  for  ourselves,  eating  Mrs. 
Little’s  pies  and  cake  and  drinking  coffee;  and  as 
we  do  the  last  every  day,  it  is  nothing  striking.  But 
I am  so  quiet,  or  so  something  else,  that  New  Year 


Writing,  Writing  337 

and  Christmas  do  not  even  make  me  feel  melan- 
choly.” 

“It  worries  us,”  she  writes,  January  6th,  after 
detailing  some  trying  things;  “we  are  so  near  being 
in  want ; we  should  have  been  suffering  long  ago,  but 
for  Anna’s  earnings.  And  now  we  are  almost  out  of 
both  kinds  of  sugar  and  of  candles, — we  shall  be 
out  before  Father  gets  home  from  New  York. 

“Last  evening  after  supper  Anna  and  I wrapped 
up  and  went  out  in  the  snow,  taking  several  turns 
down  to  the  dock  and  up  the  carriage  road.  The 
hills  looked  exactly  as  if  they  had  put  on  mourning — * 
nothing  but  white  and  black  (it  was  after  sundown) 
a crape-like  dressing  of  black  tree  stems  upon  the 
snowy  face  of  the  rough  ground,  while  on  every  slope 
and  edge  of  the  mountains  the  folds  of  the  crape  lay 
sombre  enough.  Curious  effect,  precisely  as  I have 
described  it.  I remarked  that  it  was  better  going 
out  in  the  morning  now,  the  sun  is  quite  desirable 
to  cheer  up  the  landscape — it  was  very  cold  and 
lonely  and  wilderness  looking.  Wonder  what  our 
dear  friends  on  the  other  side  think  of  us,  and  how 

if  we  were  there  and  the ’s  here,  what  energetic 

efforts  we  should  make  to  draw  them  sometimes  into 
a region  of  light  and  merry-making.  Not  that  we 
are  dismal — I am  not — but  other  people  would  he;  and 
we  are  cold.  Stood  and  heard  the  jingling  sleigh- 
bells  of  the  West  Pointers  coming  home  from  the 
‘Cruciform’ — being  the  first  Sunday  in  the  month, 
they  were  late.  Stood  then  in  the  bathing-house 
walk  and  viewed,  with  odd  moralising  reflections, 
the  strange  old  house  where  we  live.  How  exactly 
like  us — Anna  was  saying — exactly  like  a house  where 
poor  people  live.  From  that  point  of  view  especially, — 


338 


Susan  Warner 


the  discoloured  stone  end  of  the  house,  and  bare  front 
walk,  looking  as  if  it  was  not  troubled  with  atten- 
tions, and  with  a kind  of  uncompromising,  cut-loose 
from-the-world  air — it  is  just  like  us.  Not  ragged 
yet,  not  out  of  repair,  though  in  want  of  paint;  the 
very  little  garret  window  was  tight  in  its  place.  But 
the  beautiful  elm  at  the  corner,  with  its  fine  display 
of  branches  and  their  exquisite  fringing  of  tiny  stems 
and  sprays,  was  a little  out  of  keeping,  seemed  as 
if  it  might  claim  better  company.  The  old  forlorn 
willow,  naked  and  despoiled  of  two  of  its  great  branches, 
and  hanging  its  head  now  habitually  on  one  side,  was 
quite  at  home  indeed.  Came  in  not  exactly  enlivened. 
Yet  I am  very  well  content  to  be  here,  things  as  they 
are.  I am  very  unreasonable — and  ungrateful  not . 
I am  content  and  happy. 

“Jan.  7.  Shall  I ever  forget  the  pleasure  of  this 
evening?  I had  been  walking  up  and  down  the  path 
alone,  in  the  afternoon, — Anna  could  not  go  out — 
then  I came  in  and  ironed  two  shirts — then  we  had 
our  nice  little  hot  dinner  of  toast  and  cold  turkey 
and  hot  coffee.  Then  came  the  evening,  and  we 
wrote.  But  we  were  out  of  lights — not  money  enough 
to  buy  any,  unless  tallow,  and  didn’t  choose  that. 
Aunty  and  I stinted  in  white  sugar  for  our  tea,  and 
the  brown  all  out.  Father  had  but  two  cents  more 
than  enough  to  go  down!  No  oil — no  candle — only 
one,  or  part  of  one  sperm,  and  we  dared  not  burn 
that  out.  So  when  it  was  four  or  five  inches  long 
we  blew  it  out,  and  sat  down  to  ‘titivate.’  We  had 
concluded  to  give  each  other  samples  of  our  works , 
and  resolved  to  exchange  chapters  this  very  evening; 
so  Aunt  F.  put  some  lard  in  a saucer  and  a strip  of 
cotton  rag  sticking  up  at  one  edge  for  a wick,  and  by 


Writing,  Writing 


339 


this  precious  light  we  read,  she  my  first,  I her  first 
and  fifth,  with  oh  how  great  pleasure.  Then  I must 
needs  read  hers  to  Aunt  Fanny,  so  that  pleasure  was 
had  over  again,  Aunt  Fanny  sitting  before  the  ‘ Frank- 
lin ’ holding  the  saucer  and  coaxing  the  wick  to  behave 
right,  which  it  would  n’t  do,  but  flared  up  and  sulked 
and  went  down  and  died  outright,  and  being  relighted 
went  on  in  the  same  fashion.  But  I read  when  it 
burned,  and  stopped  when  it  was  freaky,  and  enjoyed 
it  all  very  much.  We  mutually  approved  each  other. 
O what  good  pleasure  it  was! 

“Jan.  ii.  Saturday.  Father  has  been  in  town 
ever  since  Tuesday, — came  home  tonight.  I being 
in  a writing  fit,  had  lighted  a candle  as  soon  as  it 
was  dark  to  finish  the  passage  I was  upon.  Anna 
had  a headache.  We  thought  he  had  not  come  by 
the  first  train;  he  was  so  laden  with  what  he  had 
to  carry  that  he  was  forced  to  stop,  forty  times,  he 
said,  on  the  way  from  Cold  Spring.  N.  B.  We  had 
been  out  of  lights  and  sparing  of  our  last  bowl  of 
sugar  this  w^eek.  He  brought  a welcome  reinforce- 
ment in  various  kinds — tea,  sugar,  wine  (for  Anna) 
and  oil;  a book  lent  from  F.  B.  and  notices  of  my 
work  from  Mr.  Putnam.  He  is  in  good  spirits  about 
it,  Father  says,  and  things  look  favourable.  I thank 
God.  I could  have  had  no  pleasanter  news  tonight 
than  this,  but  I had  not  counted  upon  it.  May  I 
answer  the  goodness  heaped  upon  me  in  some  measure 
as  I ought.  Mrs.  Sigourney,  who  is  the  lady  that 
offered  the  prize,  has  written  on  that  she  wishes  to 
know  me — I humbly  beg  leave  to  decline  and  keep 
my  incognito.  Father  thought  he  saw  the  hook  lying 
on  the  Bruens’  table.  And  there  stands  opposite  to 
me  a great  canister  of  tea,  looking  comfortable;  father 


340 


Susan  Warner 


and  Aunty  are  busied  with  papers,  etc.,  and  poor  Anna, 
having  drunk  a little  wine,  is  I hope  sleeping  away 
her  headache ; and  I on  account  of  said  headache  have 
not  opened  my  notices  yet. 

(Written  afterwards.)  “At  last  I got  through  with 
writing  journal  and  notes,  and  then,  though  A.  was 
still  sleeping,  I must  open  my  package.  Father  had 
told  me  that  Mr.  Putnam  had  had  some  of  the  W.  W. 
W.’s  bound  up  in  one  volume,  and  had  put  up  a copy 
for  me  along  with  the  notices.  I supposed  it  was  an 
inferior  and  cheaper  way  of  doing  it  up.  What  was 
my  astonished  delight,  after  untying  the  knot  of  the 
cord  with  the  patience  of  pleasure,  to  find  a most 
elegant  volume,  gilt  most  ornamentally  on  the  sides 
and  back,  and  with  gilt  edges.  My  exclamation 
roused  Anna,  and  then  we  had  the  notices.  Father 
read  them,  once  or  twice  his  voice  almost  choked 
off  by  the  strength  of  what  it  was  uttering. 

“Well,  I had  an  immense  deal  of  pleasure.  And 
poor  Anna  on  the  ‘luxury’  had  too,  making  her  head 
worse  I suppose  all  the  while,  for  worse  it  grew  after- 
wards. And  the  vases,  imitation  of  Etruscan,  which 
Fanny  Bruen  had  sent  up,  were  unwrapped  and  set 
on  the  ‘Franklin’  and  admired.  In  the  package  with 
my  book  and  the  notices,  was  a copy  of  ‘Fadette,’ 
and  along  with  it  also  the  first  number  of  Mrs.  Clarke’s 
Girlhood  of  Shakespeare’s  Heroines.  We  had  won- 
derful pleasure.  After  father  went  to  bed,  Anna’s 
head  was  so  bad  that  she  could  not.  She  reclined 
on  the  ‘luxury’  and  dozed  till  it  grew  easier,  while 
Aunty  and  I sat  over  the  fire  and  kept  it  alive,  till 
Sunday  came.  It  was  about  one  o’clock  when  I went 
to  bed.  The  notices  were  in  my  head  all  night.  They 
kept  out  tolerably,  Sunday,  which  was  a very  good 


Writing,  Writing 


34i 


day,  but  Sunday  night  I think  I did  not  sleep  well 
again  for  sheer  excitement.  Resolved  to  keep  my 
new  beautiful  copy  for  myself  and  to  send  my  other 
blue,  two-volumed  one  to  Fanny  P. ; which  I did,  with 
a copy  of  Robinson  Crusoe’s  Farmyard  this  morn- 
ing, Jan.  14,  by  Father. 

“Jan.  16.  Mild  hazy  weather,  and  has  been  so 
for  several  days.  This  one  like  October  in  its  col- 
ouring,— a thick  haze  and  the  warm  sunlight  shining 
through  it  upon  the  patches  of  snow  that  are  left. 
Sky  not  like  winter  at  all.  A.  and  I in  the  woods — 
she  hacking  bits  of  pitch  pine  out  of  pine  stumps; — 
I drawing  branches  to  chop ; getting  them  from  under 
an  old  pine  tree,  where  the  very  soil  was  made  from 
the  fallen  reddish  or  brown  leaves,  a thick  soft 
carpet  of  which  covered  the  ground,  and  through  it 
the  Chimaphila  maculata  springing  all  around.  I did 
not  know  there  were  so  many  left  on  the  island. 
I suppose  they  may  require  such  a very  sheltered, 
warm  spot.  Very  pleasant  weaving  too;  seeing  pleas- 
ant things  through  the  branches  and  the  light  and  the 
snow  and  the  pine  woods. 

“ Mem.  Did  not  recover  from  the  effects  of  Satur- 
day night  in  several  days. 

“Jan.  17.  Ice  broken  up  a good  deal,  and  crossing 
in  boats. 

“Jan.  25.  Mrs.  Codwise  spoke  to  Father  about  the 
W.  W.  W. ; asked  if  he  had  seen  it  ? Father  said  he 
has  seen  some  notices  of  it  in  the  papers;  she  said 
they  were  reading  it  aloud,  and  some  young  lady 
staying  there  would  not  give  them  rest  about  it; 
there  was  a scene  in  a steamboat  which  said  young 
lady  recognised  as  like  what  she  had  experienced  her- 
self! Knowledge  of  the  world,  etc.  Afterwards  wish- 


342 


Susan  Warner 


ing  to  ask  if  Father  had  seen  a Mr.  Blunt  with  whom 
he  had  business,  she  said,  ‘ Have  you  seen  Mr.  Van 
Brunt?’  ‘Why,’  said  Father,  ‘you  are  turning  a 
Yankee  into  a Dutchman!’  I am  inclined  to  think 
she  must  by  some  means  have  possession  of  my 
secret. 

“Feb.  i.  Sam  brought  the  papers  to  the  window 
while  we  sat  at  dinner,  and,  turning  them  over,  Anna 
found  a second  notice  of  the  W.  W.  W.  in  the  Home 
Journal.  Made  my  dinner  go  off  very  well.  Father 
brought  word  at  night  that  the  edition  of  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  copies  is  almost  sold.  Six  weeks  today  since 
published.  Reading  tonight  part  of  a chapter  of 
Anna’s, — -the  ironing,  and  the  talk  with  Miss  Easy 
and  Mr.  Ellis.  Very  much  pleased,  and  Aunt  F.  the 
same;  and  then  I think  I don’t  know  what  about 
mine — c'est  a dire , the  present  work. 

“Feb.  8.  I think  it  wTas  this  day  (for  I write 
weeks  after)  that  Father  brought  me  a very  great 
budget  of  praise  indeed  from  the  Murrays — Mr.  Murray 
and  all — him  especially.  Miss  Ogden  had  been  re- 
markably interested  in  the  W.  W.  W.,  very  much 
engrossed  with  it,  and  Mr.  M.  had  seen  nothing  of 
the  kind  in  a long  time  that  had  pleased  him  so  much. 
Father  detailed  a great  deal.  I longed,  I longed, 
when  I had  heard  it,  that  my  talents  might  all  be 
thoroughly  sanctified.  The  next  day,  Sunday*- in  the 
afternoon,  A.  had  been  copying  off  some  hymns  for 
Emmeline’s  book,  and  left  them  with  me  to  look  over. 
I had  not  read  two  verses  of  ‘We  would  see  Jesus,’ 
when  I thought  of  Anna,  and  merely  casting  my  eye 
down  the  others  so  delighted  and  touched  me  that 
I left  it  for  tears  and  petitions.  I wished  A.  might 
prove  the  author — and  after  I found  she  was,  I sat 


Writing,  Writing  343 

by  her  a little  while  with  my  head  against  her  crying 
such  delicious  tears.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  other 
people  find  pleasure  on  the  earth,  and  as  if  A.  and  I 
go  skimming  through  the  air  to  get  it, — more  refined 
and  pure.  Thank  God  for  this. 

“ Feb.  15.  Father  came  home  with  no  particular 
news,  and  I felt  rather  down. 

“Feb.  22.  The  edition  is  all  sold  out  and  Mr. 
Putnam  is  talking  of  another.  Nine  weeks  since 
published;  and  sold  with  great  liking.  He  has  had 
repeated  orders  for  more  copies  from  Boston  and 
Providence,  and  people  have  written  to  know  my 
name, — Mrs.  Sigourney  among  them. 

“March  i.  My  secret  is  out.  Mrs.  Bruen  spoke 
of  the  W.  W.  W.  so  as  to  shew  that  she  knew  it ; and 
going  to  Mrs.  Wilkes’s  she  broke  out  the  first  thing 
about  it.  No  book  in  her  neighbourhood  has  made 
such  a stir  in  a long  time.  Miss  Few  trying  to  read 
it  aloud  broke  down  entirely.  That  pleases  me. 
Being  out  of  print  nearly  it  has  been  selling  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  city  for  $2.50,  and  a bookseller  let 
somebody  as  a favour  have  a copy  for  $2.25.  He  said 
he  had  not  had  a book  in  I don’t  know  how  long  that 
had  sold  so  well.  I thank  God  for  it  all,  and  pray 
for  my  entire  sanctification  to  his  glory. 

“March  3.  Father  not  going  till  mid-day,  I read 
him  chapters  five,  six,  and  seven  of  Anna’s  book. 
I do  not  know  when  I ever  saw  him  laugh  so,  beyond 
bounds,  as  repeatedly  in  the  cattle  chapter.  I had 
a very  great  pleasure  indeed.  He  admired  and  ap- 
proved exceedingly.  I think  he  must  have  gone  away 
with  a sweet  morsel  under  his  tongue. 

“March  4.  A letter  from  Mrs.  Sigourney  asking 
if  I had  received  the  premium  for  my  essay.  So 


344 


Susan  Warner 


delighted  with  A’s  book  that  it  overshadows  mine, 
for  the  present  at  least. 

“ March  8.  Father  brought  us  a quantity  of  paper 
and  envelopes,  seven  hundred  of  the  latter,  three  boxes 
of  note-paper,  and  a half  ream  of  letter  paper,  got  at 
the  auction  store  for  $2,  and  a letter  to  Mr.  Putnam 
from  Professor  Gammell.  How  wonderful  it  is.  May 
God  give  me  his  smile — I wTant  that  most.” 

Yes,  it  was  very  wronderful.  Dear  Mrs.  Codwise 
was  quite  anxious  lest  my  sister’s  “head  should  be 
turned”;  but  as  we  both  assured  her,  the  blessing 
was  far  too  great  and  deep  to  turn  heads.  But 
wonderful  it  was.  Professor  Gammell  wrote,  after 
referring  to  his  previous  notice  in  the  “Christian 
Review” : 

‘ ‘ I now  write  at  the  instance  of  many  friends  here — 
they  are  all  ladies  of  course — to  know  who  Elizabeth 
Wetherell  really  is,  and  also  to  express  the  hope 
which  is  here  very  widely  cherished,  that  she  will 
be  induced  to  go  on  in  the  same  strain  in  which  she 
has  so  well  begun,  and  either  narrate  still  further 
the  fortunes  of  her  most  delightful  little  heroine,  or 
enter  upon  some  new  plot  which  shall  develop  similar 
principles  and  breathe  the  same  pure  and  elevated 
spirit.  She  has  succeeded,  I think,  better  than  any 
other  writer  in  our  language  in  making  religious  senti- 
ment appear  natural  and  attractive,  in  a story  that 
possesses  the  interest  of  romance.” 

“The  truth  is,”  said  the  N.  Y.  Times , “that  one 
book  like  this  is  not  produced  in  an  age.” 

“It  is  capable  of  doing  more  good  than  any  other 
work,  other  than  the  Bible,” — so  said  the  Newark 
Daily  Advertiser. 

“Private  opinion  and  surmise  state  that  it  is  written 


Writing,  Writing  345 

by  Miss  Warner,  of  West  Point;  that  it  is  a very 
extraordinary  work,  one  of  the  most  so  that  have 
been  written  in  this  country.” 

“She  has  few  equals,  and  no  superiors,  on  either 
side  of  the  Atlantic,”  said  the  Edinburgh  Witness. 

One  can  understand,  I think,  how  my  Father’s 
voice  faltered  as  he  read,  and  how  the  glad  author 
prayed  for  fuller  consecration  to  honour  the  blessing 
bestowed. 

The  book  drew  in  all  classes  of  people.  A friend 
calling  upon  Mrs.  George  Bancroft  one  day,  expressed 
surprise  at  seeing  a book  of  that  sort  upon  her  table. 
With  an  expressive  gesture  the  woman  of  fashion 
replied:  “My  dear,  you  know,  one  must  read  it!” 

On  the  other  hand,  little  four-year-old  Henry  Olin — 
leaning  his  elbows  on  his  mother’s  lap  as  she  and  his 
aunts  read  the  book  aloud,  twisting  about  with  the 
utter  fatigue  of  the  long-held  hard  position,  was  ad- 
vised to  run  off  and  play.  But  with  another  twist, 
the  mite  sighed  out:  “ It ’s  so  interesting!” 

Another  small  boy,  to  whose  home  we  went  on 
a visit,  planted  himself  near  my  sister,  with  hands 
behind  him,  and  took  a long,  serious  observation.  Then 
turned  away  with  the  competent  remark:  “ I should  n’t 
have  thought  she  could  have  done  it!” 

Of  course  there  were  criticisms, — of  the  religion, 
the  style,  the  story ; but  I do  not  think  they  disturbed 
my  sister  much.  And  as  a rule,  the  critics  found 
fault  with  yet  a touch  of  kindness  in  their  words; 
or  we  thought  so.  No  one  seemed  really  to  wish 
to  hurt  us.  Sometimes  the  comical  came  in,  as  thus : 
“In  the  ‘Wide,  Wide  World’  cannot  be  found 
better  undergarments  and  hosiery  than  at  James 
E.  Ray’s,  108  Bowery.” 


346 


Susan  Warner 


This  might  have  been  a hint  at  Ellen’s  stockings. 

In  1852  the  book  was  already  verging  towards 
the  fourteenth  edition.  So  it  was  stated. 

But  meantime,  in  the  spring  of  ’51,  we  at  home 
knew  very  little  what  would  happen.  Beautiful 
notices  were  not  hard  cash;  and  the  book  had  been 
issued  so  very  late  that  there  were  no  January  accounts 
coming  in.  It  was  with  a little  natural  impatience, 
that  in  the  spring  my  sister  wrote  her  playful  ques- 
tion to  Mr.  Putnam:  was  there  hope  she  might  thence- 
forth live  by  the  pen? — or  should  she  betake  herself 
to  needle  and  thread  ? 

We  made  merry  over  the  letter  at  home,  laughing 
at  the  idea  of  her  minute  and  painstaking  stitches 
ever  earning  daily  bread;  but  some  one  got  hold  of 
the  letter,  and  made  a fine  serious  paragraph  therefrom. 

Mr.  Putnam  wrote  back  (April  30,  1851):  “Of  the 
‘Wide,  Wide  World  I have  printed  1,500  copies,  and 
about  1,400  copies  of  these  are  sold,  I believe,  so 
that  a new  edition  of  750  or  1,000  copies  has  already 
been  ordered.  This  I consider  very  good  success — 
and  such  success  as  convicts  me  (I  am  bound  to  con- 
fess) of  sad  want  of  faith  and  good  judgment — for 
I certainly  did  not  anticipate  the  half  of  it.  Your 
book  has  indeed  been  received  with  remarkable  in- 
terest in  various  quarters,  and  I consider  it  to  have 
been  ‘a  hit*  in  a special  and  emphatic  sense  of  the 
word. 

“ I should  not  dare  to  offer  even  suggestions,  touch- 
ing the  difference  between  pens  and  needles, — but  it 
is  fair  to  say  that  many  have  chosen  the  pen  with 
less  warrant  and  encouragement.  . . . Minny  wrote 
an  analytical  review  (!)  of  your  book,  which  I in- 
tended to  send  for  your  edification,  but  it  has  been 


34  7 


Writing,  Writing 

mislaid.  She  and  Haven  were  near  quarrelling 
for  the  second  or  third  first  reading  of  the  book — 
more  complimentary  to  the  book  than  to  their 
disinterestedness . ’ ’ 

The  journal  skips  on  to  July  30th. 

“Poor  journal  too  long  neglected — writing  and 
copying  and  other  things  have  hindered.  One  gets 
tired,  and  how  then  write  journal?  But  I have 
had  a world  of  things  I might  have  written — praises 
from  every  quarter,  and  multitudinous.  I finished 
the  draught  of  ‘Queechy’  I think  the  13th  of  June; 
and  began  to  copy  a few  days  afterwards.  I am  now 
only  in  the  ninth  chapter.  Slow  work — don’t  get 
done  one  sheet  of  draught  on  an  average  per  day. 
I love  to  copy,  but  the  whole  thing  has  been  far  from 
interesting  me  like  the  W.  W.  W.  I work  hard  at 
my  corrections,  as  I did  very  hard  at  the  original 
draught.  The  W’s  were  easier  work.  Aunt  N.  and 
the  twins  left  us  yesterday  after  a three  weeks’  visit. 
Father  is  gone  to  New  York  today,  and  we  are  our 
old  trio.  We  feel  it.  A.  droops,  and  cannot  get 
spirit  or  interest  to  go  on  copying.  I feel  it,  and 
oh,  were  it  not  for  something  above  the  world,  that 
changes  not,  what  would  life  be? 

“ Aug.  2.  Writing,  writing  today,  and  no  exer- 
cise— that  is,  no  row,  because  Mrs.  Sandford  came 
just  as  we  were  going  to  get  ready.  I feel  the  want 
of  it,  I suppose,  for  I feel  down — down,  down.  Copy- 
ing— finished  the  ninth  and  began  the  tenth.  A letter 
from  Harriet  Schuyler  day  before  yesterday — mighty 
kind  and  handsome — I want  or  would  like  to  ask  her 
here,  but  I am  grown  shy  of  making  advances.  And 
with  so  many  pleasures,  how  cloudy  life  has  grown — how 
empty.  Nay,  fame  never  was  a woman’s  Paradise,  yet.’’ 


348 


Susan  Warner 


You  see,  friends  had  died — or  drifted  away;  so 
that,  except  our  other  dear  aunt,  there  was  scarce 
a person  in  the  world — outside  of  our  own  circle  of 
linked  hands — who  really  cared  much  for  her  success. 
Nay,  in  some  cases,  there  was  a tinge  of  quite  another 
colour.  And  then,  while  it  was  all  a very  great  joy, 
it  had  not  as  yet  a setting  of  helpful  funds;  the  pinch 
held  on,  and  for  a good  while  we  were  very  sober. 
Something  of  this  was  no  doubt  due  to  the  reaction, — 
and  I think  in  our  hearts  there  was  also  a feeling  akin 
to  those  misnamed  “tears  of  joy,”  which  are  really 
but  tears  for  the  sorrow  that  has  been,  that  dared 
not  come  before. 

I must  have  been  spending  some  days  with  a neigh- 
bour, when  this  queer  little  note  was  written : 

“ Dearest  A. : — 

“Aunty  wants  to  know  particularly  how  you  are 
(for  me,  I don’t  care  about  it) — she  desires  that  you 
do  not  disguise  the  truth  for  the  purpose  of  gratifying 
yourself  with  a longer  stay. 

“Last  night  I was  tired  and  sleepy  and  did  n’t  write 
much — I made  myself  a cup,  otherwise  a cup  and 
three  quarters  of  chocolate,  over  which  I would  say 
‘delectated’ — but  I wasn’t  quite  spry  enough  for  that 
— then  I got  over  a place  in  Queechy  where  I was 
stuck — and  finally  we  went  to  bed,  solving  the  alge- 
braical problem  of  i + i + a - you  understand  ? It ’s 
astonishing  (to  quote  Mr.  Carvill)  what  a difficult 
problem  that  is  sometimes  to  work  out ! It  was  n’t  last 
night,  though, — but  I cannot  indeed  give  you  the  exact 
result,  as  the  first  i was  an  unknown  quantity.  Today 
I have  been  darning,  digging,  and  finally  writing, 
this  long  time,  in  delicious  solitude — dinner,  shirts, 
and  further  pen  scratches  being  probably  in  the 


Writing,  Writing  349 

future.  Your  little  cat  is  comfortable — to  all  ap- 
pearance— and  I am  thine.  S. 

“Sleeves  and  receipt  I hope  will  wait  upon  you 
tomorrow. 

“I  am  afraid  you  will  suffer  a scarcity  of  muslins! 
Send  us  word.” 

It  is  addressed:  “Miss  Anna  Warner,  At  Court.” 

“ Aug.  5.  A Newark  paper  sent  me  by  Mr.  Putnam 
with  such  a notice  of  the  W.  W.  W. ! — above  every- 
thing I have  seen  yet.  Very  grateful  indeed — and 
I — what  shall  I say?  My  Lord  and  my  God,  sanctify 
me  entirely  to  Thy  glory.  My  face  is  in  the  dust,  and 
I say,  If  I have  done  iniquity  I will  do  no  more.  Copied 
out  near  seven  pages. 

“Aug.  25.  Long  Branch.  A long  break  in  copying 
and  everything  else  but  sewing,  to  enable  us  to  get 
here.  A fair  journey  down  in  the  cars,  without  father 
and  with  Fanny  and  Ellen;  then  a hurried  walk  about 
New  York  streets  after  sundry  things,  especially  night 
tapers,  most  essential  to  my  comfort,  which  after 
many  trials,  at  druggist,  fancy,  hardware,  and  thread- 
and-needle  stores,  found  at  last,  at  Rushton’s,  corner 
Chambers  St.  Then  a fair  sail  down  in  the  Thomas 
Hunt , and  the  curious  winding  drive  over  the  sandy 
ground  to  Howland’s,  where  we  are.  Father  could 
just  see  us  here  and  run  back,  to  go  with  the  first 
opportunity  to  West  Point.  We  had  our  dinner,  and 
dressed.  To  our  much  disappointment,  Mrs.  Wilkes’ 
friend,  Mrs.  Wharton,  to  whom  we  had  a letter,  is 
no  longer  here.  After  a little  time  to  realise  matters, 
I was  somewhat  inclined  to  feel  strange  and  badly — 
to  wish  myself  home — to  think  that  our  stay  here 
would  not  be  a long  one.  Tea  made  me  feel  better, 
and  we  went  rather  early  to  bed.  My  night  taper 


35° 


Susan  Warner 


burned  to  admiration,  the  air  was  sweet  and  pleasant 
after  a warm  day;  and  I rested  happily.  Towards 
morning  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  east  window. 
It  was  not  yet  dawn,  and  there  over  the  dark  sea 
line,  about  an  hour  high,  was  the  old  moon,  a fine 
crescent,  with  the  whole  round  indicated;  and  upon 
the  smooth  sea  was  such  a reflection  of  moonlight 
as  I never  saw, — not  like  that  on  our  south  bay,  but 
I suppose  from  the  damp  atmosphere  and  the  spray 
from  the  surf,  softened  to  enchantment ; and  wherever 
there  was  light  it  was  a dreamy  light.  The  evening 
before  as  it  fell  late  the  spray  made  quite  a mist  along 
the  shore  on  either  hand,  and  the  sun  had  set  in  the 
low  west  leaving  such  a crimson  sky!  And  that  un- 
broken hemisphere  of  the  ocean  line!  Oh  there  is  a 
great  deal  here  for  the  eye.  In  the  morning,  a little 
after  the  sun  was  up,  the  reflection  of  his  light  on 
the  water  was  glorious;  a white  band  of  light  stretch- 
ing quite  off  to  the  horizon,  which  showed  bright 
against  the  morning  sky  in  comparison.  Spirits  re- 
stored. Are  you  not  glad  we  are  here?  said  I,  and 
so  I feel.  If  it  only  does  Annie  good.  Thank  God 
for  his  mercies.  And  oh  the  joy  of  calling  him  my 
Father.  My  Father,  keep  me!” 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  RISING  TIDE 

That  winter— 1851-52 — we  spent  in  town;  but  I 
find  no  written  record;  we  were  the  busiest  of  busy 
bees.  Writing,  correcting  proofs,  and  practising  the 
strictest  economy  the  while.  For  my  dear  Father’s 
return  to  law  business  had  not  been  a success.  The 
courts  and  methods  had  changed  since  he  was  a thriv- 
ing young  lawyer ; and  from  henceforth  we  were 
breadwinners  to  the  family,  —so  finding  our  beloved 
life-work  doubly  beautiful  and  sweet. 

Many  writers  make  fabulous  sums — on  paper;  and 
some,  no  doubt,  in  truth;  but  such  was  not  our  case. 
We  did  receive  a good  deal:  and  just  at  first  there 
was  some  Lord  Chancellor’s  decision  which  (for  a 
time)  gave  us  a sort  of  copyright  in  England.  But 
it  took  a long  while,  and  much  money,  to  merely 
fill  the  chasm  years  had  scooped  out,  and  bring  our 
home  affairs  really  up  to  the  surface  again.  And 
while  of  course  we  did  allow  ourselves  many  a small 
extra,  not  possible  before,  we  never  dreamed  of  dress- 
ing or  living  up  to  the  standard  of  my  childish  days. 
The  lessons  had  been  sharp;  and  we  were  anxious 
now  to  save,  not  to  spend.  We  did  receive  a good 
deal.  But  the  statement  that  owing  to  the  enor- 
mous sales  of  the  W.  W.  World,  Mr.  Putnam  had  paid 
my  sister  “ten  thousand  dollars  above  his  contract,” 
was  as  much  news  to  us  as  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 


35 


352 


Susan  Warner 


Some  man  wrote  to  my  sister  for  money  on  the  strength 
of  that  newspaper  item ! 

And  so,  wdien  enough  had  gathered  at  the  old 
Chemical  Bank,  my  Father  sought  out  some  safe  in- 
vestment whereby  the  little  fund  might  grow,  we 
keeping  back  just  enough  for  easy  running  expenses. 

Two  or  three  absolute  luxuries  stole  in.  My  Father 
got  us  a piano,  per  favour  of  an  old  bad  debt ; and  this 
winter  we  indulged  ourselves  with  riding  lessons. 
Also  with  black  silk  dresses.  The  dresses  were  good, 
and  convenient, — but  shall  I ever  forget  the  glee 
with  wdiich  we  cut  and  made  some  most  inexpensive 
grey  riding  habits;  and  then  on  certain  days  marched 
up  Fifth  Avenue  to  the  old  Dickel  School,  to  take 
our  lesson!  Feet  might  be  orderly,  but  spirits  danced. 
And  in  the  spring  w~e  took  back  to  the  Island  a de- 
lightful little  brown  “Vermonter,”  our  very  own. 

That  was  a happy  winter,  with  little  frills  of  society 
about  our  steady  working  life.  We  two  lingered  in 
town  a while,  after  the  others  had  gone  home;  and 
in  April  the  journal  begins  again. 

“At  Miss  Cadle’s.  Here  one  week  this  morning 
before  breakfast.  Queechy  lies  here  on  the  bed — 
six  copies,  sent  up  to  me  yesterday.  It  is  published 
tomorrow.  Five  thousand,  Mr.  P.  told  me  yesterday, 
are  in  boxes,  to  be  sent  or  already  I suppose  sent 
off,  to  orders.  A greater  start  than  any  book  ever  had 
out  of  his  store.  But  he  does  not  seem  over  sanguine ; 
neither  am  I.  He  had  not  finished  it,  but  rather 
seems  to  incline  to  the  opinion  that  it  is  not  so  inter- 
esting as  W.  W.  W.  Minny,  of  whose  judgment  he 
thinks  a good  deal,  decides  that  it  is  ‘interesting’ — 
but  not  so  ‘ absorbing ’ as  the  former.  I am  not  sure 
of  anything — except  that  I do  not  deserve  it  should 


353 


The  Rising  Tide 

succeed' — I am  very  sure  of  that!  And  of  one  thing 
more : that  whether  his  child  be  at  the  moment  pleased 
or  no,  my  Father  will  do  what  is  good  for  me.  It  is 
enough.  And  yet,  if  I am  disappointed  I shall  feel 
it,  I know.  I thought  on  looking  at  Q.  a few  days 
ago,  that  it  was  decidedly  better  than  its  predecessor 
— it  may  be  too  much  heiter,  perhaps.  As  He  will. 

“ June  5.  The  Island.  Home  these  two  weeks. 
Very  busy  sewing,  and  trying  to  get  hold  of  a thread 
again.  Father  has  received  the  amount  of  his  claim 
upon  Mr.  F.,  and  last  week  went  and  ordered  home 
a stock  of  groceries,  what  has  not  been  done  in  many 
a day,  and  has  written  to  Mr.  Roosevelt  about  our 
tea  set,  to  have  it  back  now  immediately.  How  glad 
we  were  of  both.  Father  brought,  too,  the  water 
bottle  I had  wanted  and  thought  I could  not  afford. 
He  laid  in  a supply  of  sugars — half  barrel  of  white, 
and  another  of  brown,  and  fine-powdered  white — 
coffee,  rice,  hominy,  rasins , spice,  maccaroni,  salt, 
hams,  smoked  beef,  and  I know  not  what  beside  — 
to  the  tune  of  thirty- six  dollars.  So  we  feel  quite 
rich,  and  I hope  somewhat  thankful.  Today  A.  has 
received  a letter  from  Mr.  Hart,  enclosing  two  notices 
of  Dollars  and  Cents.  I tell  her  not  to  quote  me 
any  more,  that  I am,  as  Barnum  said,  nowhere ; and 
she  asks  me  funnily  if  I am  not  contented  with  being 
‘a  perpetual  well-spring  of  the  most  tender  pathos.’  ” 

Queechy  met  with  great  favour,  and  has  kept  it. 

“It  has  merits  of  its  own  that  are  even  superior 
to  the  almost  faultless  excellence  of  the  ‘Wide,  Wide, 
World.’” 

“It  is  written  in  a more  sparkling,  polished,  and 
vigorous  style.’’ — So  said  the  notices. 

“The  intense  delight  with  which  I have  read  your 


23 


354 


Susan  Warner 


never-to-be-forgotten  ‘Queechy,’  wrote  a lady  from 
South  Wales. 

“I  know  not  how  to  thank  you  for  Queechy.” 
So  came  the  w^ords  from  a Philadelphian.  “It  has 
given  me  greater  satisfaction  than  even  ‘little  Ellen 
Montgomery  ’ —which  is  more  than  I expected  to  say 
soon  of  any  book.  When  I say  that  your  books  give 
me  exquisite  pleasure,  I deny  them  their  highest  and 
truest  praise.  They  have  done  me  good.  They  have 
made  me  a wiser  and  a better  man — more  strengthened 
to  duty,  more  reconciled  to  suffering.” 

“Since  first  July,”  wrote  Mr.  Putnam  (Aug.  17, 
1852)  “we  have  printed  new  editions  of  both  Queechy 
and  Wide  World,  and  all  three  works  are  still,  I 
am  happy  to  say,  in  active  demand.” 

This  card  came  to  her  from  England: 

“Australian  Line  of  Packets, 

To  sail  in  January. 

For 

Melbourne , Direct 
The  new  British-built  Clipper, 

Fleda , A.  I. 

600  tons  burden. 

Charles  Mathinson,  Commander. 

Loading  in  the  St.  Katherine  Docks. 

“This  fine  vessel  has  been  built  expressly  for  speed, 
and  from  her  light  draught  of  water  will  discharge 
the  greatest  part  of  her  cargo  alongside  the  wharf 
at  Melbourne;  and  has  superior  accommodation  for 
Cabin  and  a limited  number  of  Steerage  passengers. 

“For  freight  or  passage  apply  to 
George  Duncan, 

4 New  London  Street, 


The  Rising  Tide 


355 


or  to 

Alex.  Glowdon  & Son, 

102  Leadenhall  Street.” 


How  amused  we  were ! 

So  notices  and  letters  came  in,  now  of  one  book, 
now  of  the  other,  or  of  both  at  once. 

“It  is  now  nearly  a year,”  wrote  a stranger  from 
New  Jersey,  “since  I first  met  with  your  incomparable 
work,  ‘The  Wide,  Wide  World,’  which  I read  with 
the  most  heartfelt  sympathy  and  delight.  I imme- 
diately purchased  it  as  a suitable  gift  for  the  thir- 
teenth anniversary  of  my  Ellen, — and  recommended 
it  to  every  one  in  whom  I took  the  slightest  interest,  — 
and  now  every  reading  friend  I have  possesses  a copy, 
and  enjoys  it  as  I do.  During  an  illness  of  my  hus- 
band (a  grave  man  of  fifty-seven),  I read  it  aloud 
to  him.  Like  myself  and  so  many  more,  he  was 
perfectly  charmed  with  the  faithful  individuality 
with  which  each  character  was  portrayed,  and  the 
lofty  principles  and  scriptural  truths  inculcated  in 
the  volumes.  My  oldest  daughter  of  twenty  (not 
very  fond  of  reading)  is  charmed  with  it,  —and  my 
Ellen  (its  owner)  has  read  it  three  times  over  with 
renewed  enjoyment,  and  I truly  believe,  profit.  I 
have  myself  read  it  with  attention  three  times  alone, 
and  as  many  times  aloud,  to  a deeply  interested  circle 
of  auditors;  and  each  perusal  gives  fresh  pleasure, 
and  an  increased  perception  of  its  value.  Even  my 
youngest,  a boisterous  boy,  who  cannot  read,  will 
listen  to  it  for  hours  as  a rich  treat  to  him.” 

“Did  your  father  tell  you,”  wrote  Aunt  Fanny 
from  home,  “that  Lipsy’s  new  boat  is  lying  at  the 
dock  with  Queechy  on  it  in  large  letters?  The  guard 


356 


Susan  Warner 


asked  him  (your  Father)  the  other  day,  if  the  boat 
was  n’t  named  after  a book  Miss  Warner  had  written.” 

In  the  fair  up-river  region  where  the  scene  of 
Queechy  was  laid,  that  fact  declared  itself  but 
slowly.  My  sister  had  not  been  at  the  place  for  ten 
years  before  she  wrote  the  book,  and  of  course  drew 
no  portraits,  nor  was  held  in  very  clear  remembrance 
by  the  country-side.  But  the  discovery  once  made, 
tongues— and  feelings  too — were  well  astir. 

“I  think  it  is  very  hard,”  said  one  good  woman, 
“that  Miss  Warner  should  have  held  up  my  husband 
to  ridicule,” — and  my  sister  had  never  even  heard 
of  him!  But  feeling  in  general  ran  the  other  way. 
A little  “Industry”  on  the  hill  near  the  sawmill, 
stamped  its  products  “Queechy  rifles”;  the  pretty 
“Whiting  Pond”  became  “Queechy  Lake,”  and  en- 
terprising tourists  began  to  gather  round  the  beloved 
old  house,  demanding  to  see  the  rooms,  and  keen 
for  souvenirs.  And  the  glamour  of  the  story  fell  on 
even  those  to  whom  the  place  had  once  been  home. 

“I  do  not  realise  yet  that  I am  really  at  Queechy,” 
wrote  our  Aunt  Fanny;  “at  least  while  I am  in  the 
house : out  of  doors  I feel  that  everything  is  coloured 
by  the  book.  The  pines  and  hemlocks  on  the  east 
hill,  the  twenty  acre  lot,  and  the  seven  maple  trees, 
have  an  interest  that  they  never  had  before.  While 
I am  upon  this  subject  I must  tell  you  two  or  three 
things  I heard  in  Hudson.  Miss  P.  told  Harriet 
that  she  had  got  up  at  five  o’clock  to  read  Queechy, 
and  was  perfectly  captivated.  Told  her  she  must 
let  her  know  when  Sue  came  to  Hudson  that  she 
might  come  to  see  her,  for  she  would  rather  see  her 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Mrs.  G.  asked  Ellen 
if  she  had  heard  of  Sue’s  having  One  Hundred  Thou- 


The  Old  Saw  Mill  at  “Queechy” 
From  a Pencil  Sketch  by  Anna  B.  Warner 


Of  TKE 

ItfWERSlTV  OF  ILL'W'' 3 


* 


The  Rising  Tide 


357 


sand  Dollars  from  England, — not  from  her  book,  but 
bequeathed  to  her.  I suppose  for  her  want  of  pa- 
triotism. Fan  does  not  exactly  approve  Sue’s  plan 
of  making  her  best  characters  English.” 

But  one  of  the  most  delightful  little  things  was 
about  our  other  dear  Aunty.  “After  she  had  read 
part  of  it  in  manuscript  at  the  Island,  she  was  greatly 
troubled  for  fear  she  should  not  live  to  finish  the  rest ! ” 
As  to  Queechy,  some  nameless  people  we  heard 
of,  “denied  that  Sue  wrote  Queechy;  laughed  at 
the  idea.” 

On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  G.  “wished  there  were 
two  volumes  more.” 

Bits  of  fun  came  in  with  it  all.  A strange  man  (!) 
was — or  thought  he  was — so  smitten  with  my  sister, 
that  he  persuaded  a friend  to  write  for  him,  and  get 
permission  for  a visit.  I wish  I had  her  reply,  which 
greatly  amused  the  gentleman  who  wrote, — but  I 
find  just  two  mentions  of  the  affair. 

Aunt  Fanny,  answering  a letter  of  mine,  says: 
“You  must  have  been  amused  with  your  ‘Philo- 
sophic,’ to  be  sure.  What  did  Miss  L.  say  of  him? 
Did  she  see  through  him  ? I wonder  how  many  times 
more  he  will  come  before  he  stops  coming!” 

I do  not  know:  my  sister  chronicles  that  desirable 
finish  thus: 

“I  hear  no  more  of  Mr.  Thing — alias  Prof. — odious 
man!’’ 

This  also  amused  us  much.  Our  kind  correspondent 
in  the  firm  of  Nisbet  & Co.  wrote: 

“I  think  I may  say  we  have  now  got  up  a ‘Wide 
World’  fever,  and  it  is  amusing  to  stand  quietly  by 
and  watch  its  fitful  heaving.  Albeit  you  get  little 
good  from  it. 


35^ 


Susan  Warner 


“I  see  the  book  placarded  about  in  all  directions 
and  its  pretty  face  exhibited  in  every  window;  while 
the  literary  pirates  Bohn,  Routledge,  Wilson,  and 
Clarke  are  cutting  away  at  each  other,  and  we  are 
keeping  a dignified  watch  over  Queechy.  I am 
told  by  a correspondent  in  the  country  that  the  trade 
in  Manchester  and  Liverpool  is  literally  inundated 
with  W.  W.  W.,  and  strongly  advising  me  to  bring 
Queechy  down  to  the  same  level.  ...  I have  had 
to  interview  three  different  parties,  and  to  refuse  to 
sanction  the  publication  of  a Review  by  Dr.  Trench — 
a brother  of  ‘Trench  on  the  Parables,’  which  I felt 
sure  would  damage  the  book. — I read  the  Review 
with  care,  and  could  I with  propriety  have  copied 
it,  I would  have  done  so  for  your  behoof.  The  only 
suggestion  worth  conveying  to  you  is  an  exception 
taken  by  him  to  the  marriage  of  Carleton.  In  Eng- 
land a marriage  must  be  celebrated  either  in  the 
Parish  Church,  a Dissenting  Chapel  properly  licensed 
for  that  purpose,  or  the  Office  of  the  District 
Registrar.  The  only  exception  would  be  the  private 
Chapel  of  a Nobleman.  Now,  as  you  do  not  mention 
any  officiating  Clergyman  or  Minister,  he  takes  ex- 
ception to  that.  And  also  the  improbability  of  a 
gentleman’s  private  chapel  being  built  like  a Moorish 
temple.  We  will  alter  the  style  from  Moorish  to 
Gothic  to  render  it  more  natural,  but  we  will  leave 
the  reader  to  guess  the  last,  unless  you  suggest  an 
alteration.” 

I have  no  copy  of  my  sister’s  answer.  But  she 
was  an  extremely  careful  person  when  she  set  foot 
in  foreign  lands:  took  nothing  for  granted.  And  so 
after  a light  word  to  Mr.  Watson,  that  she  did  not 
see  how  turning  a Moorish  into  a Gothic  temple  would 


359 


The  Rising  Tide 

make  it  Christian ; she  went  on  to  tell  him — and  all 
whom  it  might  concern — that  “by  special  license 
from  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  Englishmen 
could  be  married  anywhere /” 

To  all  of  which  in  due  time  Mr.  Watson  sent  brief 
response : 

“I  have  altered  the  Temple  back  again  to  its  old 
architecture!  And  there  it  will  bide,  for  I find  it 
safest  to  let  you  ‘speak  your  own  words.’  So  depend 
upon  it  you  will  be  safe  in  my  hands  now.” 

Talking  of  ‘pirates’ — and  Queechy  —there  were 
ten  thousand  copies  sold  at  one  railway  station  in 
England,  but  the  publishers  scouted  the  idea  of  sending 
the  author  a cent. 

From  home  Aunt  Fanny  wrote:  “Your  Father  has 
gone  to  Poughkeepsie  again  today,  for  the  third  day. 
He  saw  Mr.  Ludlow  in  court,  as  usual.  He  could 
not  say  enough  about  your  book.  He  seemed  in 
ecstatics.” 

In  a letter  of  mine  from  town — ‘ ‘ Mrs.  Codwise  talked 
to  us  tearfully  of  her  delight  in  Sue’s  success, —how 
not  one  of  our  friends  had  rejoiced  more  than  she. 
Mrs.  C.  says  not  to  have  read  the  book  is  not  to  be 
in  the  fashion.  Mme.  de  Gourlay  says  Miss  McIntosh 
sat  up  till  two  o’clock  reading  Queechy.  Miss 
Hedges  came.  She  seems  to  like  Queechy  very 
much — says  it  has  had  the  usual  bad  effects  of  novels 
• — it  has  spoiled  her  housekeeping,  made  her  cross  to 
the  children,  and  kept  her  up  till  twelve  o’clock  at 
night. 

“We  have  seen  few  notices,  as  yet;  but  several 
people  have  asked  Miss  Bowen,  ‘Isn’t  she  going  to 
write  another?’  and  father  met  a little  lawyer  the 
other  day  in  a captivated  state  of  mind.  He  had 


36° 


Susan  Warner 


already  bought  four  copies — one  to  send  to  Oregon. 
Crowen  told  Mrs.  Led  yard  the  Thursday  after  it  was 
published,  that  he  had  sold  fifty  copies.  Pretty  well 
for  less  than  three  days?” 

Of  course,  in  time,  all  this  broke  up  our  solitude, 
and  both  friends  and  strangers  began  to  remember 
and  look  for  us.  And  if  I quote  the  old  Scotch  lines, 
it  is  with  no  touch  of  harshness,  but  only  a smile  and 
a sigh  at  the  old,  inevitable  way  of  the  world: 

“When  ye  need  na’  their  countenance, 

A’  body  kens  ye! ” — 

“Truly,  Sue,”  I wrote  my  sister  in  July  of  that 
year,  “I  am  beginning  to  feel  that  our  Island  is  more 
like  Robinson’s  after  he  discovered  the  savages,  than 
before.” 

During  that  season  (1852)  my  sister  made  several 
visits  away  from  home ; and  her  delightful  daily  letters 
are  well  worth  reading;  but  I can  give  only  one.  It 
is  so  fragrant  with  her  unselfish  love. 

11  Pelham— Sept.  2. 

“My  dear  Annie:  I am  here  safe— safe  and  happy — 
I am  thankful  to  say.  I wish  you  only  could  have 
known  how  prosperous  and  pleasant  my  way  has 
been,  while  you  were  perhaps  fidgeting  about  me. 
Never  worth  while— till  you  know  cause. 

“I  am  welcomed  as  it  was  promised  I should  be. 
But  how  you  were  and  are  regretted!  Miss  Harriet 
woke  up  this  morning  with  something  upon  her  mind, 
and  found  out  it  was  that  you  were  not  here.  I don’t 
come  another  time  without  you,  she  told  the  Primes 
today.  Those  Primes  that  went  to  the  Cooper  cele- 
bration with  us— they  called  upon  me  this  morning 


3 6i 


The  Rising  Tide 

and  engaged  us  to  tea  for  Friday.  Tomorrow  evening 
we  are  expected  at  the  Priory — tonight  is  lecture. 

“A  charming  cottage,  a lovely  family,  the  kindest 
hospitality,  and  very  happy  prepossessions  in  my 
favour.  Oh,  I am  very  glad  I came. 

“I  had  a pleasant  day- — a day  to  be  remembered — 
on  Monday.  After  my  journey  wras  over;  for  that 
was  a little  nervous,  we  went  so  dreadfully  fast. 
Father  told  you  I dare  say  how  we  managed;  but 
could  he  tell  the  pleasure  I had  in  hunting  out  and 
sending  those  books  for  you.  And  Layard!  I hope 
your  birthday  was  happy,  though  I was  not  there.” 

On  her  way  through  the  city,  she  bought  for  me 
“The  British  Essayists”  in  eight  volumes;  and  Mr. 
Putnam,  hearing  they  were  for  a birthday,  added  in 
a beautiful  copy  of  Layard’s  “Nineveh.”  No  such 
package  of  books  had  come  into  the  house  since  I 
was  a small  child,  and  to  my  hands,  never!  Can 
anybody  guess  how  it  looked  to  me?  The  letter 
goes  on: 

“When  I parted  from  Father  I took  ’bus  and  went 
up  to  see  Miss  Sands.  Very  kind  and  good  as  usual. 
To  my  delight,  she  told  me  of  your  book  being  so 
much  liked — the  Bethunes  prefer  it  to  Queechy. 
Dr.  B.  was  reading  it  with  uncommon  zest.  Mrs. 
Putnam  greatly  admired  the  preface  to  Q.  which  I 
shewed  her,  and  spoke  handsomely  of  your  writing 
in  general. 

“I  returned  to  Park  Place  in  time  and  went  with 
Mr.  P.  to  Staten  Island — in  as  fair  a combination  of 
light  and  hazy  atmosphere  and  sunset  colouring  as 
ever  I saw  in  that  region — gloriously  beautiful.  Mrs. 
P.  glad  to  see  me,  and  exceedingly  kind.  The  child- 
ren are  to  return  with  me.  Next  morning  I wrote 


362 


Susan  Warner 


my  letter  to  Mr.  Watson,  and  enclosed  yours  and 
sealed  it  up  ready.  Then  went  to  see  Mrs.  Codwise, 
and  am  very  glad  indeed  I did.  She  never  got  your 
letter.  Mrs.  P.  sent  her  carriage  to  fetch  me  back, 
and  taking  leave  of  her  I went  up  to  town  in  the 
eleven  o’clock  boat.  Went  to  Carters’,  to  Stewart’s, 
to  Beck’s — and  ordered  my  purchases  to  Miss  Sands’ 
— having  first  requested  her  permission.  Then  to  Mr. 
Putnam’s  for  my  bag,  which  he  offered  to  send  for 
me,  and  then  finding  that  I was  going  to  Taylor’s, 
said  he  was  going  there  too,  and  went  carrying  said 
bag  for  me.  So  we  dined,  he  on  what  pleased  him, 
and  I on  coffee  and  sandwiches  and  ice-cream,  which 
last  I took  partly  on  principle.  Then  he  went  with  me 
to  the  station  and  deposited  my  bag.  Then  I went 
after  one  or  two  little  thread-and-needle  matters  and 
Aunty’s  gloves  and  back  to  the  station  at  three  o’clock, 
to  await  the  time  of  getting  tickets  and  taking  seats. 
In  a little  while  came  in  Miss  Fanny  Schuyler,  who 
was  there  with  her  mother,  father,  and  Miss  Bolton 
the  younger.  So  I was  cared  for  at  once  and  there- 
after, and  had  no  more  trouble  (except  a little  bit 
when  the  two  trains  were  racing,)  but  a world  of 
pleasant  talk.  Only,  how  you  were  wished  for. 

11  Mr.  Putnam  would  he  glad  to  publish  ‘ Mr . Ruther- 
ford's Children ’ as  soon  as  you  can  have  it  ready. 
So  with  that  piece  of  delightful  news  I think  I may 
leave  you.  He  wanted  to  know  if  my  first  volume 
was  near  done , and  said  it  was  time. 

“Yours  dearly,  with  all  love  to  Aunty  and  Father, 

‘ ‘ Susan.  ’ ’ 

“Mr.  and  Mrs.  Putnam  fell  quite  in  love  with  Aunty.” 

I am  so  glad  to  tell  this — and  kindred  things — 


363 


The  Rising  Tide 

about  our  dear  Aunt  Fanny,  my  only  mother  from 
my  baby  days.  We  had  been  hurt  and  troubled  by 
words  in  the  preface  to  “Le  Monde,  le  vaste  Monde”; 
words  which  a stranger  might  think  implied  that  she 
was  the  original  of  “Miss  Fortune.”  The  trans- 
lators had  asked  us  for  a sort  of  life  of  my  sister, 
which  was  refused.  Whereupon  they  made  it  up  for 
themselves. 

“ Sept . 1 6 , 1852.  After  sundry  days  of  hunting 
through  old  letters  and  trying  to  get  ready,  began 
to  write  actually.  Beat  my  brains  hard  and  worked 
through  near  half  a page.  Went  to  Fort  Putnam 
with  the  little  Putnams. 

“Sept.  17.  Deserted  my  yesterday’s  sheet — wrote 
off  the  substance  of  what  I then  wrote  upon  a new 
one,  and  near  finished  out  two  pages.  Went  to  tea 
at  Mrs. with  the  infant  Putnams.” 

This  was  “The  Plills  of  the  Shatemuc.” 

uSept.  18.  Lost  the  day  and  wrote  nothing. 

“Sept.  20.  M.  & H.  coming  to  spend  the  day 
with  our  juvenile  guests,  their  mamma  invited  herself 
to  spend  the  same  with  ourselves,  consequently  the 
statement  runs  thus:  — Mrs.  S.  — a day. 

“Tuesday.  Got  on  three  pages,  the  limit  I had 
fixed  for  myself. 

“Wednesday.  Ditto,  ditto,  ditto.  Made  up  my 
mind  that  three  pages  a day  is  not  getting  along 
sufficiently  fast,  and  that  I must  write  my  old  four — 
or  rather,  not  my  old  four,  which  was  sometimes  five, 
and  six,  alternating  with  less  than  four,  but  a regular 
sheet’s  worth.” 

She  wrote  on  very  large  note  paper  in  a very  fine 
hand,  and  lines  very  near  together, — so  that  her  four 
pages  meant  a good  deal. 


364 


Susan  Warner 


“ Thursday.  Wrote  four.  Ending  the  first  chapter 
with  no  very  definite  idea  what  the  next  was  to 
be. 

“ Friday . Just  got  to  work,  when  a horrid  man 
came  from  Philadelphia  to  negotiate  with  me  in  be- 
half of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  and  stayed  enor- 
mously— till  towards  eleven  o’clock.  Nevertheless 
wrote  my  task,  about. 

“ Saturday . Wrote  my  four  pages  by  half  past 
one.  Have  written  a letter  to  Harriet  Schuyler 
besides,  Thursday  and  today. 

“ Monday , Sept.  27.  Four  pages. 

‘ ‘ T uesday.  F our  pages . 

“ Wednesday , Sept.  2Q.  Finished  that  chapter  and 
began  Chapter  four.  Wrote  in  all  more  than  three 
pages,  with  dreadfully  hard  work.  Very  tired,  I 
suppose.  Father  came  in  the  afternoon  from  New 
York  and  brought  a letter  from  Sampson  Low,  Jr. 
in  New  York,  desiring  to  see  me — one  brought  by  him 
(Mr.  Low)  from  England  from  Charles  B.  Tayler, 
an  author,  but  really  I am  not  quite  certain  of  what; 
a very  handsome  and  kind  letter; — a note  from  a South- 
ern gentleman  enclosing  a notice  of  Queechy  written 
for  the  next  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  and  de- 
siring my  acknowledgment  of  the  receipt  of  the  same! 
— a civil  way  of  getting  an  autograph;  a basket  of 
peaches  from  Mr.  Putnam  and  a letter,  saying  that 
it  is  too  late  to  bring  out  a ‘juvenile’  by  Christmas, 
but  that  he  would  like  to  print  two  or  three  of  them 
for  spring  publication,  and  that  February  would  be 
a good  time  to  begin  printing  the  larger  work.  Rea- 
sonable! Resolved:  To  let  the  juveniles  alone  till  I 
get  my  draught  of  this  done.  And  besides  all  these, 
English  copies  of  Glen  Luna,”  (Dollars  and  Cents) 


The  Rising  Tide  365 

"and  two  more  of  the  W.  W.  W.!  Glen  Luna 
beautiful.  Excited,  rather,  with  all. 

“ Thursday , Sept.  jo.  Not  very  well,  I think;  in 
want  of  exercise,  so  not  in  fine  writing  trim.  Wrote 
slowly  and  little,  before  dinner,  having  begun  late, 
but  after  coffee  made  up  three  and  a half  pages. 
Wrote  to  Mr.  Low,  asking  him  to  spend  a day  here. 
Alas!  Took  a good  row  this  afternoon. 

“ Friday.  Wrote,  with  much  ado,  at  least  with 
some  ado,  almost  my  four  pages.  Took  a good  row, 
but  unable  to  do  almost  anything  else.  Wasted  the 
evening  in  light  reading. 

11  Saturday.  Accomplished  but  three  pages,  and 
those  by  the  hardest.  Can  that  be  worth  much  which 
it  is  so  excessively  difficult  to  produce?  What  do 
I want?  Rest,  I think,  sometimes;  and  perhaps 
spirits — spirit  for  my  work  at  least.  I am  glad  now 
when  I get  through  my  task  and  can  come  down- 
stairs to  my  German  and  music  and  reading.  At 
least  I am  when  I can  get  them,  but  when  I go  to 
row  in  the  afternoon  it  must  be  done  so  early  that 
it  swallows  up  nigh  all.  Went  again  this  afternoon. 
To  write  with  such  labour  depresses  me.  Not  finished 
the  fourth  chapter  yet. 

“ Monday,  Oct.  7.  Three  pages,  not  without  diffi- 
culty— got  too  tired  to  go  on,  and  after  dinner  was 
still  too  tired.  So  stayed  at  three. 

“ Tuesday.  About  four  pages.  With  more  ease 
and  pleasure. 

“ Wednesday.  Up  late  and  began  to  write  very 
late,  yet  about  finished  or  nearly,  my  four  pages.  Anna 
is  agoing  again,  to  my  gladness.  I do  not  know 
at  all  what  wrork  I am  making — but  there  seems  need 
enough  we  should  both  work,  for  there  is  little  pros- 


366 


Susan  Warner 


pect  of  much  coming  in  from  other  sources.  We 
have  been  talking  a little,  privately,  about  winter 
arrangements  in  the  city,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  come 
to  perfect  conclusions.  Only  it  seemeth  to  me  that 
we  should  do  ill  to  stay  here,  and  that  we  cannot  go 
to  any  boarding-house  whatever. 

“ Thursday . Four  pages.  Finished  chapter  five. 

11  Friday.  Did  not  feel  very  well,  and  began  very 
late,  yet  did  my  task.  Read  German  afterwards. 
Made  Bible  notes  this  evening.  But  I get  so  tired! 
Yet  I am  unwilling  and  it  seems  to  me  inexpedient 
to  change  four  for  three. 

“ Saturday.  Very  flat  spirited  in  the  morning — 
dead-spirited — insomuch  that  I had  little  mood  to 
write  and  actually  lost  an  hour  or  so  for  sheer  want 
of  life.  Felt  better  when  I got  going,  but  after  all 
was  not  able  to  finish  my  task.  Ought  to  have  fin- 
ished my  sixth  chapter,  but  stopped  short  of  that. 
A little  more  than  three  pages.  Very  tired  this 
afternoon. 

11  Monday,  Oct.  n.  Four  pages  and  finished  Satur- 
day’s quota.  Spent  the  evening  writing  three  notes. 
Long  getting  to  sleep. 

“ Tuesday . A little  done  over,  or  not  very  well. 
Sat  with  my  head  on  the  ‘luxury’  cushion  and  dozed, 
instead  of  writing.  But  mended  enough  to  get  through 
three  pages.  Writing  downstairs  today.  I think  I 
get  too  tired  in  my  long  pull  upstairs  by  myself. 

“ Wednesday.  Not  very  well  yet,  as  appears  by 
my  work.  Only  two  pages. 

11  Thursday.  Not  quite  myself,  but  better.  Three 
pages.  Finished  Chapter  seven.  Expected  Mr.  Low, 
who  did  not  come.  Had  a good  exercise  in  the  woods 
cutting  and  clearing  away. 


36  7 


The  Rising  Tide 

“ Friday . Three  pages.  Then  had  to  go  out  in 
the  woods.  Pulled  branches  and  went  about,  here 
and  there,  till  found  by  Sam  who  brought  the  intel- 
ligence that  a gentleman  had  been  at  the  house  an 
hour  or  an  hour  and  a half.  Everybody  had  been  out 
hunting  for  us.  Home  I came.  We  had  locked  up 
everything,  so  that  Mrs.  Miller  had  had  to  let  the 
stranger  in  by  the  tea-room  door.  I was  in  a calico 
working  dress,  merino  sacque,  worsted  cap,  white  hand- 
kerchief round  my  neck,  clump  shoes,  and  very  old  kid 
gloves.  So  I unlocked  the  door  and  came  in  to  receive 
Mr.  Low,  and  then  went  off  to  change  my  wood  trim. 
Was  n’t  much  pleased  with  his  Englishship.  Thought 
he  did  not  appreciate  his  privileges — at  first,  especially ; 
and  I suppose  it  might  puzzle  him  to  know  what  to 
make  of  us.  The  rug  had  been  turned  upside  down  for 
fear  of  fire;  one  desk  on  the  table,  another  on  the 
‘luxury’;  and  we,  A.  and  I,  carrying  candles  in  and 
out  of  the  tea  room.  An  under-bred  man.  But  he 
is  willing  to  engage,  nay  he  did  engage,  to  take,  if 
I would  write  it,  a volume  from  me  and  pay  me  for 
each  edition  of  three  thousand  the  sum  of  £50, — the 
books  to  be  sold  at  half  a crown.  He  promised  to 
take  it,  without  seeing  it.  But  I don’t  think  I ’ll  give 
it  him.  Paid  me  £20  for  that  first  little  edition  of 
the  W.  W.  W.  He  only  stayed  to  tea.” 

How  well  I remember  it  all!  Tea  in  “the  old 
room,”  but  the  talk  held  chiefly  by  the  blazing  fire- 
light, and  with  no  servants  to  run  in  and  out.  Very 
strange  it  must  have  seemed  to  eyes  fresh  from  Eng- 
land; where  (we  are  told)  everything  is  always  in 
order,  and  the  correct  thing  always  on  hand. 

“ Saturday . Seven  pages  and  a bit  more.  A fine 
work  in  the  woods. 


368 


Susan  Warner 


11  Monday,  Oct.  18.  Got  through  two  pages,  by  the 
help  of  a broken  morning.  Evening,  got  hold  of  some- 
thing and  wrote  pleasantly  another  two  pages  and  a 
half. 

‘ ‘ Tuesday.  All  of  one  page ! Dull — unable  to  write. 
Had  to  write  a note  to  Mr.  Low,  from  whom  I re- 
ceived an  extraordinary  letter,  taking  for  granted  my 
acceptance  of  his  propositions,  and  saying  my  work 
(unwritten  and  unagreed  for)  should  be  announced 
in  England  for  early  publication!  He  sent  me  Mr. 
Tayler’s  ‘Thankfulness’ — which  is  a little  thing  with 
not  much  in  it. 

“ Wednesday.  Four  pages.  But  too  tired  in  the 
evening  to  do  anything,  not  with  writing  so  much  as 
with  working  in  the  woods  these  two  days,  a little  too 
much. 

“ Thursday . Four  pages  and  a half.  Writing  a 
good  piece  of  it  in  the  evening.  A piece  that  I 
like. 

“ Friday . Went  over  the  river  and  returned  the 
Miss  T’s  call.  Wrote  near  three  pages, — what  I like. 
Not  over  well,  I think;  I mean,  myself  personally. 

“ Saturday . Wrote  only  a few  finishing  words  of 
chapter  nine  before  dinner.  After  dinner  began 
chapter  ten — in  the  evening  took  a great  start  and 
finished  nigh  five  pages  and  a half! 

“ Monday , Oct.  25.  Two  pages — and  a letter  to 
Air.  Tayler  of  England. 

“ Tuesday . Four  pages,  and  a letter  to  Mr.  Carter. 
Great  working  in  the  woods  these  days.  But  German, 
and  music,  even,  go  to  the  wall. 

“ Wednesday.  Wrote  none  till  after  dinner.  Yet 
finished  four  pages.  Going  out  in  the  woods  takes 
a great  deal  of  time.  Anna  writing  too  on  her  part, 


The  Rising  Tide  369 

and  chacune  ne  sait  ce  que  fait  l’autre.  Pasting  a 
few  texts. 

“ Thursday . Mending  frocks  and  making  notes, 
and  it  is  now  a quarter  past  ten,  and  we  are  going 
out.  That ’s  the  way  the  world  goes  at  present. 

“ Friday . A page  and  a half.  Then  Mary  Wilkes, 
and  no  more. 

“ Saturday . Writing  to  Mr.  Watson,  and  sending 
it  to  Mr.  Carter  to  be  mailed.  By  the  by,  Father 
brought  me  yesterday  a letter,  very  kind  and  prom- 
ising, from  Mr.  Watson;  the  second  edition  (his  first) 
of  the  W.  W.  W.  is  nearly  gone,  and  orders  given  to 
the  printer  to  prepare  for  another.  An  answer  from 
Robert  Carter  & Bros,  accepting  my  tender  of  the 
Bible  book,  ‘The  Law  and  the  Testimony.’  So  that 
is  grand,  and  I am  very,  very  glad.  If  it  have  but 
His  blessing. 

11  Monday,  Nov.  1 . More  than  three  and  a half 
pages — which  will  do,  considering. 

“Nov.  2.  Not  a page.  I forget  what  was  the 
matter.  Texts,  partly,  perhaps. 

“ Wednesday . Three  and  a half  pages — began 
Chapter  XI. 

“ Thursday . Three  and  a half  pages. 

‘ ‘ Friday.  About  four,  by  writing  late  in  the  evening. 
Busy  this  week  with  texts. 

“ Saturday . Two  and  a half.  Little  at  the  texts 
either.  Tired,  I believe.  Father  came  home  yes- 
terday. He  has  engaged  rooms  for  us,  three  on  a 
floor,  with  bath-room  and  kitchen  privilege,  in  East 
Sixteenth  Street.  Unfurnished,  and  we  to  keep  our- 
selves, and  for  One  Hundred  Dollars  from  now  till 
May.  Pleased  with  the  prospect.  But  oh!  the 
business  on  our  hands! 


24 


37o 


Susan  Warner 


“ Monday , Nov.  8.  Tired,  I suppose.  Only,  not 
half  a page — and  nothing  great  in  the  way  of  texts. 
Pleasant  letter  from  Mrs.  Prentiss,  thanking  for  the 
jelly  and  saying  she  wants  to  see  us  dreadfully.  Even- 
ing, Annie  and  I exchanged  chapters!  I did  not  so 
much  wish  to  read  hers  yet,  but  she  would  not  mine 
without.  Mine  much  approved.  Not  so  striking, 
but  more  promising , they  say,  than  the  first  chapter 
of  ‘ Oueechy.’  Hers  I approved,  too.  It  does  not 
try  to  do  very  much,  but  that  is  done  strongly  and 
like  herself.  I put  her  somewhere  between  Sterne 
and  Charles  Lamb;  but  there  is  one  very  Steme-ish 
bit  in  this  chapter. 

“ Tuesday.  Got  rested,  and  wrote  near  five  pages, 
besides  doing  a quantity  of  text-work.  Well  tired 
at  the  end.  And  then  a long,  dispiriting  talk  which 
did  not  help  me  much.  Aunt  Fanny  being  in  very  low 
spirits,  and  none  of  us  seeing  where  any  money  is 
to  come  from,  for  the  winter  or  for  anything,  except 
from  our  poor  little  store  which  ought  to  be  all  laid 
away.  But  there  will  be  provision.  An  enclosure 
from  Mr.  Putnam  containing  cards  of  invitation  to 
informal  literary  assemblages  on  Thursday  evenings. 
All  of  us  pleased  with  this  promise. 

11  Wednesday.  Flagging  again.  A good  deal  of 
text-work  nevertheless,  but  only  two  pages  and  a 
half  of  ‘The  Graduate  of  Wut-o-qut-o,’  wdiich  Anna 
laughingly  has  dubbed  my  book.  No  reading  to 
speak  of — a word  or  two  of  German.  Hard  to  do 
anything  but  work. 

11  Thursday.  About  four  pages. 

% “ Friday . About  four  pages. 

“ Saturday.  A page  and  a half.  Not  very  well, 
so  a little  hindered. 


37i 


The  Rising  Tide 

“ Tuesday,  Nov.  18.  In  all  this  week  I only  wrote 
by  snatches  or  otherwise,  a very  little;  and  leaving 
half  a page  of  that  little,  I have  today  re-written 
the  rest,  making  near  three  pages.  This  evening  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Watson,  begging  me  to  revise  W.  W.  W. 
and  give  him  an  author's  edition — two  rival  editions 
having  appeared.  And  then  the  texts,  and  our  con- 
templated removal  to  New  York  week  after  next — 
so  it  seems  as  if  poor  ‘ Wut-o-qut-o  ’ must  have  the 
go-by  for  a little. 

11  Friday.  Have  written  none.  Texts.” 

The  last  entry  for  several  months.  We  were  in 
town,  writing,  writing,  and  correcting  proofs;  enter- 
tained a good  deal  at  other  houses  and  doing  a little 
of  the  same  thing  at  home,  but  always — somehow — 
keeping  up  with  the  printer.  His  little  messenger 
w^ould  leave  a big  roll  of  proof  sheets  at  ten  or  eleven 
o’clock  at  night, — greeting  our  eyes  when  we  came 
back  from  some  small  reception, — and  then  call  for 
it  before  daylight  next  morning;  but  it  was  always 
ready. 

That  we  could  make  little  outlay,  and  no  show, 
seemed  a poor  reason  for  not  seeing  our  friends;  and 
so  we  agreed  to  be  quietly  at  home  every  Saturday 
evening,  in  our  second  floor  front. 

The  room  was  not  large,  though  it  ran  across  the 
full  width  of  the  house.  But  between  it  and  the 
back  room  was  a Very  big  closet,  square  and  dark; 
the  sides  bristling  with  hooks  for  our  cloaks  and 
dresses.  Could  we  turn  this  into  a tea  room?  The 
darkness  indeed  would  not  matter,  by  night,  but  the 
dresses? — candlelight  would  just  touch  them  up. 

So  we  searched  out  some  deep  red  canton  flannel 
(a  new  thing  then)  and  fitted  up  our  closet  with  ample 


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hangings,  which  by  night  were  quite  velvety  and  effect- 
ive. Three  camp  chairs  w^ere  also  sent  home  for  extra 
seats;  with  a fresh  supply  of  coffee  and  sugar,  and  a 
fine  German  coffee  machine.  I made  cake,  and  when 
Saturday  came  made  buns  as  well — or  perhaps  “wigs,” 
which  always  rose  to  the  situation,  and  were  a success. 

Then  we  hung  up  our  crimson,  set  coffee-pot  and 
cups  on  a small  table  in  the  closet,  with  one  of  our 
old-fashioned  silver  candelabra  and  its  three  lights ; 
while  the  other — and  the  cake  baskets — took  a stand 
in  another  crimson  comer.  I stood  by  the  tea  table, 
making  my  coffee  and  tea,  and  looking  out  from  the 
soft  shadowy  candlelight  to  the  brighter  gas-lit  room 
and  the  three  dear  figures  there.  So  we  awaited 
events. 

I have  no  record  of  that  first — or  of  any  succeeding 
night — as  to  numbers  and  names,  and  both  varied 
greatly  from  week  to  'week.  On  a fine  evening,  thirty 
guests  might  come,  and  I remember  one  snowstorm 
through  which  just  four  men  (two  of  them  English- 
men) made  their  way  to  the  house,  and  what  a royal 
good  talk  we  had. 

No  waiter  was  on  hand.  The  guests  and  wTe  to- 
gether took  away  cups  and  brought  them,  and  dis- 
pensed relays  of  buns  and  cake.  Often  a little  knot  of 
talkers  lingered  about  my  coffee  table  in  the  tapestried 
chamber,  and  took  their  refection  there.  Formality 
and  style  were  never  invited,  and  came  not  in.  This 
plan  we  kept  up  for  years. 

I said  I had  no  record, — but  even  as  I write  what 
names  and  faces  come  crowding  in ! The  Carys  ( Phoebe 
one  of  the  brightest  of  talkers)  and  dear  Miss  Haines, 
and  Mrs.  Doremus.  The  Kirklands,  Morgans,  Hut- 
tons, Bigelows, — the  beloved  Prentisses,  with  Fields, 


373 


The  Rising  Tide 

Hitchcocks,  Smiths,  Lilys,  and  Putnams,  and  Hedges 
— all  passed  now  beyond  the  flood. 

The  evenings  at  Mr.  Putnam’s  were  one  of  our 
very  great  pleasures  that  winter.  His  position  as 
leading  publisher  in  New  York  brought  all  noted 
strangers  within  his  reach;  and  so  among  artists  and 
professors,  ministers  and  men  of  science,  you  would 
see  Thackeray  one  night,  and  Lowell  another;  and 
run  the  risk  of  being  asked  (as  I was)  by  George  P. 
Marsh,  just  back  from  foreign  duty,  “what  I thought 
of  the  state  of  Europe?”  Poor  young  me! — I did  n’t 
know  Europe  had  “a  state”! 

But  when  you  stood  in  the  not  over-large  room 
among  perhaps  seventy  people,  you  felt  they  must 
be  all  good  talkers — they  made  so  little  noise.  People 
wanted  to  hear  as  well  as  to  speak;  and  there  was 
just  a soft  buzz  of  conversation  all  through  the  rooms. 

The  night  of  the  first  reception,  just  before  arrivals 
began,  the  oldest  daughter  of  the  house  decorated 
the  front  door  with  a notice  (happily  discovered  in  time 
by  her  father)  “Nobody  admitted  who  cannot  talk.” 

They  were  the  very  pleasantest  assemblies  to  which 
we  ever  went;  and  with  an  almost  none-such  host 
and  hostess.  There  one  night  Mr.  Putnam  shewed 
photographs — an  absolutely  new  thing.  And  some 
one  (by  the  way  I think  it  was  Mr.  Marsh  himself) 
told  his  belief  that  one  day  New  York  drawing-rooms 
would  be  decorated  with  scientific  implements  and 
machines,  in  place  of  the  then  style  of  adornment. 
To  what  a degree  that  has  come  true! 

March  15th  my  sister  writes: 

“And  the  go-by  poor  Wut-o-qut-o  hath  had.  But 
one  evening  have  I a little  done  at  it.  Now  we  are 
in  the  midst  of  the  Law  and  the  Testimony — head  9, 


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going  through  the  proofs;  head  io,  not  all  pasted; 
head  n,  not  ready  for  said  operation;  and  in  head  12, 
I am  half  way  through  the  Bible  in  a new  revision 
and  collection  of  the  same.  And  tomorrow  we  are 
engaged  to  spend  the  day  at  Paterson.  So  just  at 
present  there  is  something  of  a press.  But  ahead 
there  is  some  work  done.  The  juvenile  is  in  the  fourth 
chapter,  and  my  hands  cannot  get  at  it.  Never  was 
such  a winter  of  business.” 

Again  the  months  go  silently  by,  without  record. 
Then,  with  no  explanation,  comes  this : 

“The  Island.  Aug.  27.  Alas!  alas! — what  a set 
of  months  and  days  between  the  one  entry  and  the 
other!  How  oddly  I am  just  taking  my  place  again 
where  I was  then,  and  where  have  I not  been  since 
then! — what  aches  and  pains  and  weariness  of  heart, 
and  final  giving  up  the  struggle  only  even  just  now. 
How  much  long  unknown  pleasure,  marvellous  sweet 
and  spicy  to  taste,  how  much  strange  hope  and  fear, 
and  oh!  what  aching!  what  long  aching.  And  now 
I have  come  to  the  mind  that  God  knows  best;  or 
perhaps  have  been  brought  to  it  perforce.  The  Law 
and  the  Testimony  is  weeks  ago  out  of  our  hands, 
and  advertised  for  publication  Monday  week.  We 
have  not  seen  our  copies  yet,  and  have  mooted  the 
question  whether  we  shall  have  the  author’s  half 
dozen,  or  only  one  apiece.  I am  writing  Wut-o-qut-o 
— finished  Chapter  18  today.  The  first  volume  of 
the  juveniles,  is  going  through  the  press,  ‘Mr.  Ruther- 
ford’s Children’;  and  another,  ‘The  Christmas  Stock- 
ing,’ is  afloat  in  our  brains,  and  even  beginning  to 
form  itself.  Nora  goes  charmingly  in  the  Happy 
Valley,  but  we  have  not  ridden  today.” 

The  said  well-named  Happy  Valley  was  the  centre 


375 


The  Rising  Tide 

of  our  riding  ring — or  two  rings;  for  my  Father  had 
cleared  a second  one  through  the  surrounding  woods 
and  rocks.  We  never  went  off  to  the  mainland  unless 
we  had  some  good  escorting  friend.  But  in  the  Happy 
Valley,  all  sweet  with  pines  and  cedars  and  hemlocks 
and  sweet  briars,  we  rode  every  fair  day.  Going  down 
generally  by  about  half  past  six;  one  of  us  mounting 
at  the  house  and  riding  Nora  round  the  “looping’’ 
wagon  road  to  the  Valley,  while  the  others  came 
after,  with  books  and  work;  all  of  us  (the  women)  in 
riding  trim.  Then  while  one  took  her  rounds  among 
the  trees,  the  others  sat  and  worked  or  read.  I always 
kept  a special  “Valley”  book  for  these  times,  while 
my  Father  amused  himself  with  axe  or  hatchet,  but 
always  close  at  hand  for  any  demands  from  the  rider. 
I wonder  if  in  these  independent  days  girls  know  how 
sweet  a thing  a father’s  care  can  be? — making  them 
not  womanish,  but  only  more  womanly. 

We  would  come  home  about  eleven  o’clock,  go  for 
a dip  in  our  river  bath-house,  dress — and  be  ready 
for  work.  Spending  half  the  day  getting  ready  for 
the  other  half — as  we  truly  said;  but  it  carried  us 
splendidly  through  the  summer  heats. 

The  journals  cease  abruptly  with  that  last  date, 
and  for  several  years  I find  no  more.  Letters  only, 
tell  the  course  of  things.  And  even  letters  were  not 
so  many;  for  in  some  of  those  years  we  more  often 
left  home  together.  They  were  eventful  years  for 
us,  wherein  we  were  once  more  put  to  school ; a post- 
graduate course  in  some  of  our  old  lessons ; with  others 
demanding  yet  deeper  study,  and  more  humble  prayer. 

When  my  father’s  kind  friends  assumed  the  title 
of  our  landed  possessions  here,  stepping  in  between 
him  and  the  men  who  had  driven  him  so  hard,  there 


376 


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was  just  one  mortgage  remaining  to  be  paid  off.  And 
bit  by  bit  it  had  been  cleared  away,  until  now  the 
last  payment  fell  due.  This  was  in  1857.  It  was  a 
very  “tight”  year  said  the  monied  men;  hard,  at 
times,  for  even  the  wealthy  people  to  get  hold  of 
ready  cash.  My  father’s  friend  had  died,  leaving  to 
his  son  the  care  of  our  small  matter;  but  we  felt  no 
uneasiness  on  that  score.  Then  one  day  this  gen- 
tleman sent  my  father  word  that  the  last  payment 
would  fall  due  on  such  a time,  and  he  could  not  meet 
it.  A part  he  could  furnish,  if  we  w^ould  find  the  rest. 

There  stood  the  question  in  very  plain  black  and 
white.  Should  we  let  our  home  go;  or  take  what 
we  had  laid  by,  purchase  the  Island  over  again,  and 
begin  life  anew.  We  were  not  long  in  deciding. 
Every  cent  we  had  at  interest  was  called  in  and  handed 
over:  and  we  faced  the  world  once  more,  with  hands 
almost  as  empty  as  on  that  memorable  day  when 
we  coloured  our  first  pack  of  cards. 

I suppose  “bad  years”  are  especially  bad  for  selling 
books.  Then  the  Lord  Chancellor’s  decision  was  re- 
voked, and  no  more  copyright  dues  would  come  from 
England ; we  could  have  only  what  English  publishers 
saw  fit  to  give  us. 

So  we  worked!  Big  books,  little  books;  now  and 
then  an  article  for  some  paper  or  magazine.  We 
corrected  compositions  for  a certain  school;  we  wrote 
dictation  papers  for  the  teacher.  We  made  our  own 
dresses,  and  kept  the  household  bills  at  the  most 
modest  figure.  But  never  forgetting  what  my  sister 
repeats  so  often,  how  good  God  was  to  us.  What 
can  equal  the  sweetness  of  that  constant  thought? 
or  steady  one’s  heart,  like  the  quiet  words,  “Your 
Father  knoweth.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

GOOD  YEARS 

The  winter  of  1858-59  we  were  at  the  Island, — 
delighting  ourselves  much  with  “Say  and  Seal” — 
the  first  book  we  had  written  together.  We  loved 
the  region  where  the  scene  was  laid,  we  grew  very 
fond  of  our  people;  and  the  fun  of  being  busy  on  the 
same  piece  of  work  was  great.  If  we  over-worked,  it 
was  done  unconsciously,  between  pleasure  and  pres- 
sure. And  now  the  journal  begins  again: 

“Jan.  3.  Read  Aunty  the  second  ride  chapter. 
Very  much  pleased  indeed!  A.  and  I walked  up  and 
down  and  round  the  lawn.  The  grass  overlaid  with 
thin  crusty  snow  through  which  the  foot  passes  at 
every  step.  Black  hoods  and  lion’s-hair  cloaks.  What 
hermits ! 

“Jan.  4.  Last  night  and  today  snow  near  a foot 
deep.  Fell  without  wind,  soft  and  still  over  all — 
most  fair  and  smooth.  Leaves  and  twigs  piled  up 
with  caps  of  snow.  Then  the  wind  would  come  and 
take  the  tops  of  a few  cedars  and  shake  a cloud  of 
snow  from  them.  Shovelled  snow.  Bad  wood  these 
days — poor  fires,  cold  room.  Bad  for  work.  But 
work  very  sweet. 

“Jan.  5.  Very  disturbed  with  anger  at  the  un- 
civil ways  of  Cath.  and  Lawrie  (the  servants).  So 
that  writing  and  everything  was  hindered  for  a good 
while.  The  general  effect  most  distracting  and  some- 
what disheartening;  but  there  is  one  stay.  Shovelled 


377 


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Susan  Warner 


snow  with  A.  Saw  a mole  running  over  the  snow. 
At  sunset,  an  exquisite  rose  tint  on  the  top  of  the 
snow-covered  hill  back  of  Gouverneur’s.  The  first 
sunbeams  this  morning  laying  the  lines  of  fair  yellow 
light  all  across  the  lawn  from  between  the  trees,  and 
revealing  the  very  slight  undulations  of  the  surface. 

“Jan.  6.  Read  Aunty  the  walk  at  night.  She 
took  it  more  coolly  than  we  expected — so  much  so 
that  we  questioned  if  it  would  do  for  me  to  go  on 
reading  to  her.” 

Naturally  the  hearer  took  imagined  scenes  more 
quietly  than  did  we,  who  lived  in  the  midst  of  things. 

I think  it  must  have  been  that  winter,  that  I gave 
her  a paragraph  Testament  for  wdiich  she  had  wished, — 
for  under  the  same  date  she  adds : 

‘ ‘ My  superb  T estament ! ’ ’ 

We  had  always  a laugh  at  her  about  the  many 
Bibles  she  wanted;  craving  every  fine  new  variety 
or  edition,  as  other  people  collect  copies  of  Shake- 
speare. Now  a small  volume,  because  it  was  so  light 
to  hold;  then  a big  miniature  quarto  with  Bagster’s 
imprint,  because  it  was  so  perfect  in  references  (as 
it  is) ; then  a copy  with  interlined  blank  leaves,  a 
Testament  in  two  volumes — finally  a Bagster  in  soft 
covers,  which  has  more  of  her  marks  than  any  other. 
But  for  real  study,  the  Miniature  Quarto  kept  its 
place. 

Next  day  she  writes: 

“Aunty  thinks  well  of  that  chapter  nevertheless.” 
And  the  next:  “Aunty  thinks  quite  great  things  of 
that  chapter!” 

But  we  were  working  too  hard ; and  the  word  so  often 
is: 

“Below  par  yet,  with  too  much  work  I suppose. 


Writing,  Writing  379 

Have  written  mighty  little  today.  A.  and  I have 
been  sadly  jaded  this  week.” 

“ Sunday,  Jan . g . A pleasant  day  of  reading  the 
Bible — very  pleasant.  I did  not  read  so  very  much 
either,  but  it  was  a more  uninterrupted  and  unmixed 
pleasure  than  sometimes.  And  how  much,  much 
greater  and  richer  that  pleasure  might  be — may  be, 
if  I live  and  all  goes  well.  My  precious  little  Testa- 
ment at  night.  In  the  morning  Dr.  Bushnell’s  sermon 
on  ‘The  Kingdom  and  Patience  of  Jesus  Christ.’ 
Rested  somewhat  today.  A very  cold  day  indeed. 
Mercury  160  in  the  morning. 

“ Jan.  10.  So  tremendous  weather  that  it  is  one 
of  the  days  when  it  is  a business  to  keep  warm  and 
a business  that  cannot  be  done.  Thermometer  30  this 
morning.  Tonight  it  is  more  and  more.  Thermometer 
at  zero.  Hardly  ever  felt  the  cold  walk  in  as  it  did 
tonight  the  early  part  of  the  evening.  Aunty  sitting 
at  the  fire  holding  her  nose.  I in  a rocking-chair 
leaning  back  towards  fire,  both  my  hands  put  back- 
wards towards  it.  Write  as  wc  can,  but  it  is  under 
the  weather.  Very  beautiful  out  of  doors,  but  do 
not  think  of  trying  it. 

ilJan.  11.  ‘It  is  milder!’  I exclaimed,  allowing 
my  head  to  touch  the  wicker — ‘it  is  milder!  I can 
lean  back  in  my  chair!’  That  happened  some  time 
in  the  course  of  the  day.  The  morning  was  in  a 
sort  frightful.  Aunty  sat  up  last  night  and  kept 
fire,  and  near  7 a.m.  the  thermometer  stood  in  the 
room,  at  the  cupboard,  at  28°.  At  11  a.m.  in  piazza, 
at  30.  Impossible  to  be  comfortable  in  this  room. 
Impossible  to  do  much  work  or  to  go  to  New  York. 
It  is  much  milder  tonight.  We  have  been  in  a sort 
of  state  of  siege — rarely  have  ever  felt  anything  like  it. 


3 8° 


Susan  Warner 


“ Sunday,  Jan.  16.  Not  faithfully  made  the  most 
of.  A fair  day  in  all  its  opportunities — rather  a 
broken  day  in  its  enjoyment  and  use.  Reading  the 
first  chapter  Micah — very  hard  to  understand — with 
part  of  second.  Mild  weather.  Sundays  are  far  too 
good  to  be  so  much  lost! 

“Jan.  17.  A little  disordered  today,  so  could  not 
do  a day’s  work.  Headachy  and  rather  sick  at  tea- 
time — better  afterwards.  Very  mild  weather.  Am 
loving  the  Bible  very  much,  and  ‘ladders’  of  verses. 
My  little  Testament  is  a perpetual  source  of  pleasure. 

“Card  for  Mrs.  Kemble’s  readings,  the  whole  course, 
from  herself  through  Miss  Haines — because  of  our 
last  summer’s  notes.  Now,  while  we  are  locked  up 
here!  But  Pattaquasset  is  better.” 

I am  not  sure  that  in  this  perplexing,  unreliable 
world  of  people  and  things  she  could  ever  have  kept 
her  strength;  even  with  less  work  and  more  play. 
She  ventured  too  much  upon  those  she  loved  and 
trusted.  And  as  in  the  old  time,  she  broke  her  heart 
over  the  peccadilloes  of  imaginary  heroes  and  hero- 
ines; so  now,  when  she  put  the  same  faultless  standard 
for  people  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  and  they  came 
short,  the  pain  was  great.  Always  setting  her  dear 
true  heart  upon  something  that  slipped  aside  and 
fell  to  atoms.  And  then  the  head  ached,  and  the 
hands  hung  down.  Just  now,  some  letters  had  given 
her  much  trouble. 

“Not  sound  yet,”  she  writes  under  January  18th; 
“have  n’t  done  anything  of  a day’s  work.  Lay  awake 
last  night  writing  letters — indignation  or  truth  letters, 
or  what  not — and  today  have  been  under  a sorrowful 
feeling  about  the  one  that  came  last  night  and  pro- 
voked those  imaginary  ones.  . . . Read  Aunty  at 


H ■ i 


The  Study  in  the  House  at  Martlaer’s  Rock,  in  which  most  of  “ The  Wide, 
Wide  World  ” was  written 


Writing,  Writing  381 

night  the  Christmas  evening  chapter;  she  was  very- 
much  pleased.” 

Next  day  she  writes : 

“Have  done  but  a little  day’s  work,  being  not  quite 
well.  I can’t  forget  the  sorrowfulness  and  strange- 
ness, the  want  of  kindness  in  that  letter.” 

“ Jan.  20th.  Most  beautiful  and  mild — perfection 
of  winter  weather.  A warm  coloured  mistiness  some- 
times in  the  distance.  At  about  5 a.m.  it  was  rare; 
the  morning  star,  brilliant  and  large,  an  hour  or  so 
high,  and  the  moon  nearly  full,  on  the  other  side, 
throwing  such  a flood  of  light  and  short  shadows  from 
the  cedars  on  west  of  lawn.  An  hour  later,  the  clock, 
the  echoing  gun,  the  reveille  beat,  with  the  moonlight 
fainter  and  the  star  higher.  A good  day  of  work. 
Felt  better.  Piled  wood  (for  exercise).  No  servants 
in  house;  coming  tomorrow.” 

There  could  never  be  anything  on  this  earth  much 
fairer  than  those  old  morning  hours  of  work.  At  tea 
the  night  before  we  prepared  a little  pile  of  bread 
and  butter,  saw  that  our  kindling  basket  was  full, 
and  had  our  small  tea-kettle  filled  and  ready  on  the 
hearth,  in  the  old  Revolutionary  room  that  was  our 
study. 

In  the  morning  I was  generally  up  by  half  past 
four;  and  by  the  time  my  sister  came  down  the  fire 
was  burning,  the  kettle  near  the  boiling  point,  the 
tray  of  cups  and  saucers  in  place;  and  the  green- 
shaded  student  lamp  gave  out  its  soft  invitation  to 
write.  A delicious  cup  of  tea,  with  the  much-relished 
bread  and  butter,  came  first  however;  and  then  two 
busy  (but  silent)  pens  kept  company  in  the  delightful 
work.  No  disturbing  doors  or  questions,  no  creaking 
shoes  or  stairs,  no  unsympathetic  knocks.  The  fire 


382 


Susan  Warner 


sang  and  snapped,  the  coals  dropped  softly;  the  noise- 
less pens  covered  sheet  after  sheet  of  paper  with  their 
black  marks. 

The  journal  gives  other  touches  and  tinges  of  the 
home  picture. 

“ Jan . 23.  A pleasant  day  of  reading  the  Bible, 
and  ‘ladders.’ 

“ Jan . 24 . Rather  dull — Mondayish — why  I hardly 
can  tell.  Then  had  no  tea  for  dinner,  but  roast  mutton 
and  vegetables — and  so,  did  n’t  write  one  word  in  the 
afternoon — of  book.  And  am  not  very  bright  this 
evening.  They  wanted  to  try  doing  without  tea  at 
dinner.  I don’t  very  much  believe  in  it,  while  we 
are  working  as  we  are;  and  with  most  things  rather 
depressing  than  otherwise  besides  our  work.  With 
no  other  stimulant,  I think  tea  is  good — at  least 
comfortable. 

“ Jan . 25.  Not  very  smart  today.  Mild,  ex- 
quisite weather.  A.  and  I with  Willie  on  Point 
Comfort,  gathering  brush  and  sawTing  boughs,  when 
Lawrie  came  across  the  ice  from  W.  P.,  came  up 
and  delivered  his  budget  there.  Four  letters!  From 
Lippincott  with  $54,  for  which  very  thankful,  and 
felt  the  great  sweetness  of  being  immediately  pro- 
vided for  at  God’s  hand.  From  Miss  Haines — in- 
viting us  to  spend  next  Saturday  and  Sunday,  the 
monthly  holiday — must  go.  From  Irving  Place,  in- 
quiring, anxious,  inviting,  etc.  Fourth  letter  from 
Hudson.  Beautiful  out,  but  constant  patches  of 
glare  ice  through  the  woods. 

“N.  B.  Tea  for  dinner  again!” 

Next  day: 

“Below  par  today, — very  dilapidated  after  break- 
fast, which  is  not  a good  way  to  feel.  Tea  and  Indian 


Writing,  Writing  383 

cake  for  dinner,  hurrah!  The  other  dinners  can’t  get 
on  with  this  work.  No  use  to  try.  With  no  stimulus 
from  without  to  the  mind,  one  is  fain  to  take  a little, 
harmlessly,  for  the  body — and  the  mind.  Writing 
has  rather  lagged — I get  tired.  I think  I want  a 
change.” 

And  to  slacken  work.  With  “Say  and  Seal”  in 
hand,  and  (for  quicker  results)  some  books  for  chil- 
dren too,  and  with  bundles  of  school  compositions 
sent  up  from  town  for  us  to  criticise  and  correct, — no 
wonder  she  was  tired.  For  if  this  last-named  busi- 
ness refreshed  our  funds,  it  did  no  such  kind  office 
for  our  wits;  it  was  drudgery,  all  through.  And  so, 
to  cheer  on  the  physical  powers,  we  fell  into  very 
unwise  “tea”  habits, — though  the  real  joy  in  our 
book-work  never  changed. 

“/aw.  27.  Writing  not  very  thriving;  a piece  to 
do  by  myself  in  chapter  58,  and  getting  ready  besides 
for  New  York.  Packing,  machining  cloth  dress  and 
petticoat  waist — and  tired,  and  resting  and  reading. 
At  night  read  Aunty  two  chapters — the  ride  from 
Mrs.  Somers,  and  Merchant  of  Venice — she  very  much 
and  altogether  pleased.  N.  B.  I think  them  myself 
splendid — so  does  Anna.  A private  confidence.  Was 
not  always  perfectly  satisfied  with  my  own  part — 
but  nevertheless!  To  bed  at  twelve  after  a delicious 
cup  of  tea  with  A.  Sad  habit  of  taking  tea  just 
before  going  to  bed.  But  she  gets  tired,  and  tea 
sets  well.” 

Then  next  day. 

“We  are  sadly  jaded,  both  of  us  I think  we  must 
want  a change.  Even  writing  does  not  always  re- 
fresh— on  the  contrary,  I am  sometimes  so  tired  I 
think  of  the  time  when  we  shall  stop  for  prayers,  or 


384 


Susan  Warner 


something  else.  Hard  to  help  it,  with  the  com- 
positions. Sat  over  a novel,  getting  rested.” 

The  record  of  that  visit  in  town  is  full  of  pictures 
of  what  used  to  be,  peopled  with  friends  long  since 
passed  on  before.  We  were  to  stay  with  Miss  Haines, 
but  she  was  busy  when  we  arrived.  Then  after  tea, 
and  rest,  and  dressing — . 

“Dear  Miss  Haines  came  for  us,  and  we  went  down- 
stairs. Judge  Haines — Bishop  Boone  (of  the  China 
Mission) — rooms  sweet  with  flowers.  Large  basket  on 
piano — magnificent — on  table  a stiff  bouquet  of  Ja- 
ponica,  blush  cactus,  orange  flowers,  with  heliotrope 
and  soft  border  on  edge  of  small  white  flowers — 
plants  in  library.  Henry  Scudder  and  wife — the 
C.  Fields  and  H.  Fields — McIntosh,  M.,  J.,  and  H. — 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Adams — Dor  emus — Nixon — and  others 
Pleasant  talk  with  H.  Scudder  and  Bish.  Boone — 
A.  & I managed  to  hold  up  our  heads  and  go  through 
the  evening.  Mr.  Brown,  missionary  to  Japan,  and 
wife. 

“ Jan . 30th.  Pleasant  dinner — Bishop  Boone  charm- 
ing. Monthly  holiday  and  short  table — beautifully 
spread.  Tried  to  rest  in  afternoon.  Evening — to 
hear  H.  Scudder  in  Carmine  Street  Church — charmed ! 
Something  like  the  preaching  I like — something  like 
apostolic  times. 

“Jan.  31st.  Mrs.  Kemble’s  reading — ‘Much  Ado 
About  Nothing.’  Very  fine.  Then  call  and  visits — 
then  Home  and  dress  and  dinner.  Dress  again  for 
party  at  Mrs.  Doremus’s,  Dutch  Dominies.  A party 
for  Mr.  Brown — So,  so,  and  Dutch. 

“Feb.  1st.  Mrs.  K’s  reading.  ‘Merchant  of  Venice.’ 
Made  it  too  much  Shylock.  Had  a little  bit  of  Patta- 
quasset  today.  Miss  Haines  speaking  of  not  looking 


Writing,  Writing  385 

forward,  living  by  the  day,  and  the  pleasantness  of 
it — “Then  I don’t  know  but  tomorrow  I may  go 
home!  ” 

“Feb.  2.  Must  leave  Miss  H.  Pack  up  and  write 
till  lunch — after  our  chops  and  tea  and  tongue,  bid 
her  a most  loving  good-bye  and  set  off  with  John. 
Leave  our  bags,  and  then  on  to  business.  John  to 
come  for  us  tomorrow  again  with  horses  if  fair.  Miss  H. 
wants  us  to  go  and  see  everybody.  ‘Do,  my  beloved!’ 

“Feb.  3.  Read  aloud  first  two  numbers  of  ‘The 
Minister’s  Wooing’  — much  amused.  Invited  to 
breakfast  at  Mrs.  Cyrus  Field’s  tomorrow. 

“Feb.  4.  Evening  with  Miss  H.  to  Mrs.  Kemble’s 
reading.  Richard  II.  Splendid! 

“Feb.  5.  Comes  Hannah  early  with  note  from 
Mrs.  Kemble  and  Miss  H’s  offer  of  John  and  the 
carriage.  Accepted. 

“A.  and  I ride  (cars)  down  to  Stewart’s — business, 
and  walk  up  home.  Dress  and  go  in  the  carriage  to 
Mrs.  Codwise’s — not  in — to  Mr.  Dunning’s — and  then 
up  to  Mrs.  Kemble’s.  She  very  sorry,  engaged 
particularly — had  not  seen  any  one  that  morning. 
Back  to  Miss  Haines.  A pleasant  visit  there.  Home 
to  dinner,  try  to  work.  Come  the  Miss  Gilmans 
to  invite  us.  Then  comes  Mrs.  Kemble! 

“Down  we  go,  and  had  a very  pleasant  call  indeed 
from  her.  Pretty  well  stirred  up,  we  go  back  to  our 
work.  Dr.  Watson  came  to  tea — asked  him  about 
Mr.  Linden.” 

This  was  a medical  or  surgical  question — about 
gun-shot  wounds,  that  our  “shooting”  incident  in 
“Say  and  Seal”  might  be  in  all  details  correct. 

“A  pleasant  day,”  she  writes  of  the  following 
Sunday,  when  we  had  gone  wdth  Miss  Haines  to 


25 


386 


Susan  Warner 


church.  “Quiet  and  sweet  hours.  Miss  Haines  most 
dear,  most  kind.  ’ ’ 

“Feb.  y.  Miss  H.  sent  tickets  for  our  hostess, 
with  ours,  to  go  to  Mrs.  K’s  reading.  We  went — 
she  met  us  there.  First  part  Henry  IV.  Reading 
most  superb.” 

After  a tired  morning  (Feb.  8)  she  gets  into  “lux- 
urious ease  of  body  and  mind.  Read  Testament  and 
write  till  dress  to  go  to  Miss  H’s  to  dinner.  Richard 
and  carriage  came  for  us.  Mrs.  Kirkland  at  dinner — 
and  everything  remarkably  pleasant.  I feeling  well 
enough  to  do  my  part  and  enjoy  it.  Then  to  Mrs. 
Kemble’s  reading.  We  all  were  in  sofa  seats.  Play, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  exquisite  baskets  of  roses  and 
rose  buds  in  front  of  Mrs.  K’s  table.  She  read  very 

splendidly.  Mrs. annoyed  me  twice  in  the 

reading  by  addressing  whispers  to  me,  which  I did 
not  answer — as  to  some  one’s  remark  that  the  reader 
had  got  ahead  of  her,  the  speaker,  in  size — adding 
something  about  ‘enormous,’  and  another  time  asking 
how  she  could  pronounce  ‘wound’  so,  when  it  rhymed 
as  it  did  in  the  couplet.  Quel  horreur!  Dear  Miss  H. 
brought  A.  and  me  home. 

“Feb.  ii.  With  Miss  Haines  to  the  reading  in 
the  evening.  Winter’s  Tale.  Most  superb ! The  first 
time  perhaps  she  ever  really  overcame  me  to  tears. 
(Mrs.  Kemble,  I mean.)  Pauline  and  Hermione  very 
touching  in  last  scene. 

“To  Ward  school  in  the  morning  with  Mrs.  A.  and 
Mr.  Vamum.  Well  pleased.  Talk  with  a class  of 
girls  about  ‘What  is  the  worthiest  object  to  live  for?’ 
At  the  end,  shaking  hands  with  them  all  round,  one 
said,  ‘I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  beautiful 
books!’ — covered  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 


Writing,  Writing  387 

“ Feb.  14.  To  Mrs.  K’s  reading — 2nd  part  Henry  IV. 
Very  fine  indeed. 

11  Feb.  15.  In  the  evening  to  the  reading.  Henry  V. 
Most  beautifully  read. 

“ Feb.  18 . Hamlet  in  the  evening, — the  last  reading 
— superb!  Mrs.  Kemble’s  graceful  farewell  and  thanks 
— rudeness  of  audience  in  not  quelling  disturbance. 
From  reading  to  Mrs.  H.  Field’s  for  the  end  of  the 
evening,  tho’  people  were  going  when  we  got  there. 
Mrs.  Kemble  called  on  us  in  the  afternoon.  Anna 
dressing — I had  a most  pleasant  visit. 

“Feb.  19.  In  the  evening  with  Miss  H.  to 
Mrs.  Cyrus  Field’s.  A very  pleasant  gathering — the 
pleasantest  that  I ever  knew  there.  I hope  I did  n’t 
talk  Professor  Smith  to  death. 

“Feb.  22.  Five  o’clock  had  a carriage  and  went 
to  Mrs.  Field’s  (H.  M.).  Most  kindly  received,  and 
pleasant  evening  of  talk. 

“Feb.  23.  The  morning  lovely  with  spring.  Tried 
to  work  a little.  Luncheon  at  one — then  John  with 
the  carriage — and  we  drove  up  and  down  and  paid 
calls.  Home,  and  really  wrote  for  some  time.  Dinner 
at  six.  Dressed  and  went  to  Mrs.  McCurdy’s.  A 
Mercer  Street  party  for  Mr.  Clark — with  some  of  the 
other  clergy.  Very  tired,  and  almost  meditating  an 
escape  from  the  hubbub  and  heat  to  the  dressing 
room.  Talk  with  Mrs.  Brace  about  Adirondacks  and 
camping  out, — Prescott  and  his  way  of  working, — 
Mrs.  Stowe  and  Uncle  Tom  and  Eva.  Got  into  the 
cooler  little  back  room  and  rested  with  a dharming 
talk  with  Mrs.  Hutton  about  her  reading  the  W.  W.  W. 
in  her  kitchen,  to  her  black  woman  and  Irish  woman 
and  two  little  children — all  enchained.  About  the 
dog  story  in  Carl  Krinken,  and  the  hymn  story — 


388 


Susan  Warner 


about  true  self-denial,  and  inward  cultivation  of 
piety,  and  other  things,  agreeing  with  me.  A pleas- 
ant bit  of  talk  with  Dr.  Skinner. 

“ Feb.  24.  Out  for  a walk — Bridgeman’s,  Badeau, 
Mr.  Dunning — Home,  and  dress,  and  a lady,  and  an 
invitation  to  lunch  tomorrow.  Then  lunch  today. 
Then  Airs.  Field  and  we  talked  for  hours — a good 
talk,  an  earnest  talk, — duties,  responsibilities,  way 
of  meeting  them,  life-experience,  our  wTorks,  Miss 
Bronte’s,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Talk,  till  the  continuity 
and  excitement  of  it  made  me  real  tired!  tho’  the 
talk  wras  truly  interesting  and  worth  while.  Then 
Mrs.  Cooper,  whom  we  sat  and  listened  to.  Then 
escaped — got  a little  piece  of  writing  done  before 
and  after  dinner — very  tired — tried  to  rest — young 
Mr.  Sheldon  here.  I am  so  easily  tired ! 

“Feb.  25th.  Soon  after  one  went  with  Mrs.  F.  to 
Mrs.  Perkins’  to  luncheon.  About  two  dozen  ladies. 
Talked  and  looked  at  engravings  before  lunch.  A 
handsome  table — oysters  stewed  and  fried.  Chicken- 
salad,  ices,  wines,  biscuit  glace,  coffee,  chocolate, 
sandwiches,  and  cakes  which  came  after  the  time. 
If  I gave  a luncheon! 

“Then  upstairs  the  ladies  gathered  in  a sort  of 
circle  round  two  or  three  of  us,  who  discussed  woman’s 
sphere,  etc.,  somewhat  warmly,  much  to  the  interest 
of  the  rest.  Mrs.  F.  and  I the  chief  talkers.  Mrs. 
Hewitt  invited  us  most  earnestly  to  her  party 
Wednesday. 

“The  Fields  most  kind,”  she  says  later — “don’t 
wish  us  to  go.”  And  again,  “Mrs.  F.  and  we  had 
a dish  of  talk, — she  spoke  of  our  being  so  unlike  other 
people — how  and  wherein,  not  told. 

“Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  went  to  Mrs.  Jaff ray’s  great  party 


Writing,  Writing  389 

— we  had  not  strength  to  go,  nor  to  Mrs.  Robinson’s 
either.” 

March  1st  she  writes: 

“A.  and  I took  carriage  at  ten,  and  drove  to  Cham- 
bers Street.  At  Cold  Spring  wait  half  an  hour  for 
wagon — a boy  to  drive — afraid,  but  go  with  him. 
Muddy  road — disagreeable — walk  part  of  the  way. 
Home  at  last  safe,  and  very  thankful.  Very  tired, 
but  both  bore  it  pretty  well.  Home  looks  very  odd 
after  New  York.” 

“Home  looking  a little  lonely,”  she  says  next  day. 
“But  God  is  very,  very  good  to  us  that  we  are  so 
comfortable. 

“ March  3rd.  Wrote  letters — read  light  reading — 
Pattaquasset  a little.  Snow  came  on  in  the  after- 
noon— we  could  n’t  go  out,  and  A.  and  I went  to 
work  for  exercise.  She  made  biscuits,  and  I made 
sponge  cake.  Wrote  in  the  evening — but  I doubt 
that ’s  being  a good  plan.  A quiet,  comfortable  day. 
How  good  God  has  been  to  me,  and  to  us.” 

0 it  was  true!  But  schooling  is  schooling,  and 
not  all  lessons  are  joyous  in  the  learning.  It  was 
a hard  year  for  us.  Needs  were  very  pressing,  and 
work  almost  incessant,  with  no  hands  but  our  own 
to  earn.  Such  a condition  of  things  can  often  be 
met  and  tossed  off,  where  plenty  of  spice  and  sugar 
drop  into  the  daily  cup;  and  truly,  the  exquisite 
natural  world  about  us,  the  dear  home  faces,  and 
the  exceeding  grace  of  God  to  us,  did  keep  our  life 
fresh  and  rich.  But  some  keener  things  than  money 
troubles  came  in,  and  weighed  heavily  on  my  sister’s 
strength. 

We  took  our  exercise  that  year,  chiefly  in  garden 
work ; and  her  journal  records  the  beauty  of  the  days, 


390 


Susan  Warner 


the  springing  of  the  flowers,  and  the  coming  of  the 
birds.  But  the  refrain  too  often  is : 

“Quite  tired  this  evening.” 

“Very  dilapidated  in  the  morning.” 

“In  the  evening  so  nervous  I didn’t  know  what 
to  do.” 

So  that  her  part  of  the  garden  work  was  often  just 
watching  me,  and  noting  the  exquisite  doings  of  the 
spring. 

“ March  8.  Wrote  in  the  morning.  A check  from 
S.  & C.  for  $57,  and  a desire  for  ‘Hard  Maple,’  and 
for  a new  series  of  juveniles.  A great  blessing  to 
us,  every  way.  Afternoon  went  out  and  ‘ticed’ 
about,  while  Anna  worked ; I did  n’t  feel  able  for 
much  exertion.  She  dug,  and  I walked  and  saun- 
tered around,  seeing  what  should  be  done ; and  trimmed 
the  cottage  rose  by  the  door.  Daffodils  and  nar- 
cissus above  ground,  and  tulips  breaking  through. 
One  poor  Johnny  Jumper  out.  Seven  -wax-wings 
came  and  sat  on  the  walk-elm — what  brought  them? 

“ March  g.  Not  fit  for  out-of-door  work,  so  cor- 
rected papers  and  copied  a little  while  Anna  was 
out  this  morning.  Wrote  and  copied  afterwards,  and 
walked  a little  with  her  late  in  the  day.  The  buds 
on  the  trees  are  swelling  beautifully — the  grass  on 
the  lawn  shewing  promise  of  green — ice  floating  on 
the  river.  Spade  deep,  no  frost,  in  one  of  the  upper 
borders.  Looking  over  this  week  or  two,  ‘Debit  and 
Credit,’  ‘The  Laird  of  Norlaw,’  and  Miss  Bremer’s 
‘Father  and  Daughter’ — the  last  very  poor,  the  first 
amusing,  the  other  a ‘mess.’  God  is  very  good  to 
me  these  days. 

“ March  io.  White  frost  in  mornings — and  when 
the  sun  is  up  a little  way,  long  strips  of  warm  light 


Writing,  Writing  39 1 

lie  over  the  grass — and  between  them,  where  the 
shadows  of  trees  stretch  along,  lies  a white  shadow 
of  the  unmelted  frost-work,  fairy-like  and  exquisite. 

“ Sunday , March  ij.  A very  beautiful  day.  Spring 
stillness,  spring  warmth — (door  and  window  open 
much  of  the  day) — the  soft  spring  veil  over  the  light. 
Looked  out  at  it  thinking  of  the  words — ‘Walk  before 
me  and  be  thou  perfect’-— in  a ‘ladder’  I was  pon- 
dering. How  the  world  without  and  the  world  within 
went  together!  The  31st  Psalm  very  beautiful  and 
good  to  me  today.  A fair  sabbath-like  Sunday.  Very 
beautiful,  exceedingly.  A day  to  be  thankful  for — 
but  oh  a day  that  if  its  gifts  had  been  thoroughly 
appropriated  should  have  transformed  one  into  an 
angel!  Anna  brought  in  alder  flowers.” 

Speaking  one  day  of  our  work,  with  which  (that  day) 
she  was  well  content,  she  says : 

“But  the  sweet  way  with  this  as  all  things  else, 
is  without  impatience  or  anxiety  to  look  for  supplies 
and  prosperity  and  success  from  God  alone,  and  with 
a mind  contented  to  let  him  give  or  withhold.  O to 
live  so! 

“ March  28.  Hoped  for  a nice  time  of  writing. 
Perhaps  I was  too  set  for  it.  We  spent  the  first 
hour  or  two  of  our  time  in  doing  what  after  all  need  n’t 
have  been  done — which  disappointed  me  much;  and 
I did  n’t  just  recover  my  due  quiet  poise  of  spirits 
for  some  time.  N.  B.  That  an  impatient  spirit  is 
not  like  to  be  a successful  one  in  anything. 

“ April  16 . Read  to  Aunty  the  banana  chapter. 
She  was  n’t  as  much  interested  as  I looked  for,  and 
even  thought  (or  said  so)  that  the  book  was  not  so 
interesting  since  about  the  climax  part. 

ilNext  day.  Thought  of  Aunty’s  opinion  about 


3 92 


Susan  Warner 


Pattaquasset  a minute  after  I woke  up,  like  a wet 
blanket. 

“ April  20.  Wrote,  on  our  last  chapter,  but  tho’ 
I was  impatient  to  finish  it,  we  did  not  get  it  done. 

“ Next  day.  Glad  to  have  finished  that  chapter. 
May  the  book  have  the  blessing  of  God. 

“ April  2 5.  Not  too  promising  weather,  but  we 
got  off  on  the  8.38  train.  Came  down  very  fast  and 
very  shakily — disagreeable;  we  were  at  the  end  of 
a car,  and  it  swayed  to  and  fro  more  than  was  pleas- 
ant. Did  w^ork  at  Stewart’s — took  car  and  came 
to  Miss  Haines’.  There  rested,  and  looked  over  MSS., 
and  had  nice  lunch,  and  saw  her,  and  rested,  and 
dressed  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Dwight  here — we  went  into 
her  room  and  had  a pleasant  chat  before  dinner. 
That  was  for  half  past  five — Professor  and  Mrs.  Smith 
— Dr.  and  Mrs.  H.  Scudder — Professor  Guyor — 
Professor  Gajani  and  wife — Dr.  and  Mrs.  Doremus — 
Mrs.  Doremus  elder  and  daughter — Mrs.  Fondey — 
Miss  French.  A pleasant  dinner  and  evening.  A. 
and  I bore  the  day  well.” 

Three  days  later : 

“No  rain.  A.  and  I had  the  carriage  again — went 
out  and  finished  up  business.  Home  and  ready  to 
start.  Lunch — beefsteak  and  chops  and  stewed 
oysters,  and  tea  and  cream,  and  bread  and  butter, 
and  bananas  and  oranges,  and  a basket  of  nice  fresh 
cake.  Talk  to  Miss  French  and  get  more  ‘papers’ — 
and  ride  down  to  3.15  train.  Tired  and  timorous — 
but  get  somewhat  rested — and  came  up  and  home 
well  and  safely.  Thank  God  for  it.  Home  in  house- 
cleaning disorder — window  in  back  room  broken 
through  and  not  masoned  nor  carpentered  yet.  A. 
and  I a little  flat — coming  home  to  odds  and  ends, 


Writing,  Writing  393 

things  undone  that  we  can’t  do.  And  the  papers  lie 
on  my  heart,  too.  Should  n’t!” 

Next  day: 

‘‘In  a worried  state  of  mind,  decidedly,  which  is 
indeed  very  wrong.  Tired,  and  wishing  Mignonette 
to  get  on,  and  loaded  with  all  these  papers!  And 
the  masons  and  the  carpenters,  and  Duncan  and 
Berrian,  all  to  be  owed  something  soon,  more  or  less. 
Wrong,  nevertheless.  A.  and  I calculated  the  work 
of  the  papers — I sorted  one  division  and  corrected 
one  bundle.  Looked  over  MS.,  which  is  resting  and 
sweet  work.  Very  glad  and  thankful  to  be  safe  home. 
How  ungrateful  I am!” 

April  jo,  she  says: 

“Warm,  June-like,  beautiful  day.  But  I am  so 
tired.  So  very,  very  tired.  What  shall  I do?” 

The  day’s  record  ends  with  this : 

“Dear  little  gold-crested  wren  on  the  piazza  roof 
before  breakfast,  hopping  about  and  picking  up  bits 
of  the  maple  stamens  I believe;  his  sweet  food.  Two 
spots  of  gamboge  on  sides  of  breast  and  one  on  the 
head.  There ’s  a lesson  for  me.” 

“Remember,”  she  writes  after  a walk  one  May  day, 
“remember  the  pause  of  minutes  in  Happy  Valley 
to  hear  the  choir  of  birds — oh  wonder!  oh  glory! — 
we  all  stood  and  listened  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Remember  the  partridge  that  shewed  herself  to  us 
on  a tree  while  we  sat  in  the  pine  wood.” 

Again:  “Weather  perfection.  Woods  in  full  leaf. 
Birds  crazy.” 

“0  work,  work!”  she  says  another  day,  “and  the 
letters  I have  to  answer!  and  the  sewing  to  do,  and 
what  not! 

11  June  8th , with  the  house  full  of  guests. 


394 


Susan  Warner 


“People  are  enjoying  themselves,  and  very  pleas- 
antly. Immense  approbation  of  Victoria  cake  and 
things.  Anna  stays  at  home  and  cooks  and  I go. 

“ June  ii.  They  went  with  Father  in  the  Powell — 
and  I was  tired  enough  and  busy  enough  to  feel  re- 
lieved, on  some  accounts.  Sewed,  sewed,  machining 
today — getting  ready  for  Mrs.  Donaldson’s.  Pleasant 
note  today  from  her,  claiming  us  till  week  after  next. 
How  tired  A.  and  I have  been  and  are.  Out  picking 
magnificent  strawberries.  Mrs.  F.  said  last  night  she 
had  never  seen  such  berries  except  in  England.  And 
she  said  she  had  never  seen  a table  where  things  tasted 
so  good.  She  had  seen  some  of  course  more  splendid. 
Very  disagreeable  feeling  of  the  little  amount  of  money 
on  hand.  It  is  very  little.” 

June  14  she  writes: 

“Off  in  cars.  Very  wrarm  and  moist — trying — but 
we  had  a breeze  in  the  cars  and  came  pretty  com- 
fortably to  Barrytown — my  thoughts  sometimes  where 
they  had  better  not  have  been — and  sometimes  saying 
over  the  title  of  Dr.  Bushnell’s  sermon  on  ‘The  Per- 
sonal Love  and  Lead  of  Christ’ — words  that  were 
sweet  to  me. 

“ June  25th.  Pleasant  talks  we  have  here  in  the 
family,  very  pleasant.  Miss  Ward,  Mrs.  Astor’s 
grand -daughter  here  this  morning — her  amusing  sur- 
prise at  finding  we  were  Presbyterians — so  surprised. 
‘Why?’  ‘They  were  so  Calvinistic  and  so  strict!’ 

11  June  27.  Breakfast  at  6 — cars  at  17  minutes 
to  7.  Beautiful  run  down  in  the  beautiful  morning — 
home  before  9.  How  thankful  and  glad  I am — 
O how  glad  to  be  home  safe.  God  help  me  to  be 
thankful — to  be  pure — to  be  faithful — to  glorify  him 
in  all  things  always.” 


Writing,  Writing  395 

This  visit  was  followed  by  a short  stay  in  New 
York,  and  a much  longer  one  at  Say  brook,  with  guests 
at  home  between  whiles.  But  we  were  too  over- 
pressed with  work  and  responsibilities,  and  trying 
things  from  without,  for  such  small  festivities  to  have 
much  lasting  effect. 

Meantime,  the  copying  of  “Say  and  Seal”  went 
steadily  on.  It  had  to  be  copied,  because  of  the 
two  hands  in  the  work,  which  the  different  hand- 
writings would  make  quite  too  plain.  “Mignonette” 
was  our  first  chosen  name  for  the  book;  but  Lippin- 
cott  objected;  it  had  been  used — for  something.  We 
next  sent  him  “Love  and  Reason” — then  the  name 
that  stood;  our  town  of  Pattaquasset  (Saybrook, 
Conn.)  having  been  in  the  old  patent  of  Lord  Say 
and  Seal. 

We  did  a great  deal  of  rowing  these  days.  My 
sister  delighting  herself  between  whiles  with  “Tale 
of  Two  Cities,”  and  “Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.” 

“ June  2Q.  Sunday.  A very  pleasant  day  this  was 
in  part,  with  Bible  studying  in  view  of  our  S.  S.  and 
Bible  Class  projects — but  I let  one  or  two  thoughts 
come  in  and  be  indulged  that  I should  not — and  they 
hurt  my  day.” 

The  day  so  carefully  prized  that  it  could  be  hurt. 
Then  in  town: 

“ July  io.  Promised  hot  day,  but  I felt  nicely. 
As  one,  too,  who  taking  the  trials  God  sends  and 
letting  fall  the  good  he  sends  not,  looks  to  him  for 
sufficiency  and  treasure.” 

Again:  “Strolled  out  towards  evening  to  Home 
Crag  and  hill  beyond;  very  precious.  Also  Bible 
truths  were  precious  to  me,  and  realised  to  be  so. 

“One  or  two  ladders  of  verses  were  good  to  me 


39^ 


Susan  Warner 


today — that  on  ‘God  my  exceeding  joy’ — and  on 
‘made  to  drink  into  the  same  spirit.’ 

“Pleasant  influences  of  the  day — a bit  of  Dr.  Bush- 
nell’s  sermon  on  the  ‘Love  and  Leading  of  Christ’ 
very  sweet  to  me. 

“A  good  day — though  business  did  poke  itself  into 
my  head  more  than  it  had  any  right  to  do.  Yet  a 
day  for  which  to  give  thanks. 

“Nov.  6.  To  Dr.  Adams’  church  with  the  Fields. 
A clever  sermon — well  spoken — but  leaving  the  hearer 
unimpressed  with  the  awfulness  of  the  subject — ‘every 
one  of  us  shall  give  account  of  himself.’  Afternoon, 
with  Mrs.  Field  to  hear  Dr.  Bethune,  on  the  immor- 
tality of  man.  Noble,  yet  bearing,  to  me,  somewhat 
of  the  morning’s  criticism.  Not  drawing  one  up 
enough.  But  the  hymns  were  fine,  and  the  bene- 
diction— the  blessing  of  Israel — finely  given,  ‘The 
Lord  lift  up  His  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give 
thee  peace?  set  me  to  crying. 

“The  ‘Puritan  Sabbath,’ — can  anybody  describe 
how  sweet  it  was?  Not  the  tedious  bug-a-boo  take-off 
which  is  in  many  mouths,  but  the  true.  Does  it  linger 
on  earth  yet?  and  where?  And  oh  how  hard  it  is  to 
keep  hold  of  it,  amid  the  wide-spread  desecration! 

“Through  all  the  poverty  of  earthly  means,”  she 
writes  one  day,  “I  feel  so  rich  in  the  Lord’s  promises 
and  in  the  Lord.” 

Then  one  of  her  old  fits  of  reaction  would  sweep 
in,  and  pain  and  loss  get  the  upper  hand. 

“June  jo.  Walked  with  Aunties  and  A.  to  Happy 
Valley  towards  evening.  It  looked,  O like  an  empty 
place  or  monument  of  past  pleasant  times — the  horse 
paths,  the  trees,  the  pretty  ground,  where  so  many 
an  hour  more  or  less  pleasant,  some  very  pleasant, 


Writing,  Writing  3 97 

we  have  had.  It  looked  sorrowful — the  place  there, — 
the  people  and  the  pleasure  and  the  spirit  and  the 
strength  and  the  health — so  faded  and  gone.  I have 
grown  so  old  in  a year!” 

Yet  through  all  trying  things  and  times,  the  old 
rule  of  “first  the  kingdom”  never  lost  its  place  in 
her  heart.  Just  arrived  at  a friend’s  country  house, 
she  writes : 

“O  that  God  would  grant  me  the  lives  of  these 
people!  and  enable  me  to  be,  tho’  late,  his  faithful 
servant  in  all  things  and  to  all  people.  Grant  it,  and 
help  me,  my  God,  for  my  dear  Saviour’s  sake!” 

“Aug.  29.  O what  a life  I have  lived  lately,  of 
depression  and  anxiety.  Father  has  overstrained 
himself  in  working,  and  we  must  have  help  or  break 
up  here.  The  pressure  of  home  affairs  ever  since  we 
came  home  has  been  exceeding — too  much  for  our 
strength.  God  knows  all,  and  can  take  care  of  all — 
that  is  my  comfort  and  trust. 

“Aug.  jo.  Four  o’clock — all  the  family  except 
Father  went  out  crabbing  and  fishing.  I pulled  the 
boat — then  held  an  umbrella  over  me — thankful  for 
any  promising  change  and  good  to  A.  and  me.  The 
rest  crabbed  and  fished  (i.  e.,  held  lines  and  bait)  for 
a great  while — caught  one  crab.  So  thankful  for  this 
relief,  for  such  it  is.  Distraction,  sweet  air,  sweet 
light  and  beauty,  rest  of  mind — all  that,  whether  the 
cork  bobs  or  not. 

“Sept.  2.  Copy.  Proof  from  Lippincott  and  ques- 
tions anew  about  title.  Undecided.  Looks  pretty, 
the  first  chapter  in  print.  Going  out  is  telling  on 
my  good  feelings,  I think.  I eat  my  broiled  mutton 
these  two  days  with  great  satisfaction.” 

One  tired  entry  follows  another:  rowing,  crabbing, 


39§ 


Susan  Warner 


correcting  proofs ; my  father  laid  by  from  much  doing, 
and  no  man  to  be  had. 

“Read  Katherine  Ashton  these  days,  and  enjoy 
it  very  much.  Don’t  know  what  I should  do  without 
fictions.” 

The  same  child  yet! 

“Sept.  15.  Anna  is  very  troubled,  half  sick,  with 
a finger  into  which  she  ran  a sliver.” 

Next  day:  “Last  proofs  of  ‘Hard  Maple’ — A.  too 
sick  with  her  finger  to  correct  them.  I ’ll  do  it, 
expect  to.” 

So  our  small  working  force  was  diminished  by  one, 
and  for  many  w^eeks.  And  when  at  last  I got  leave 
to  do  anything,  it  w^as  only  with  the  left  hand;  with 
which  I copied  and  wrote  for  nine  full  months. 

“Oct.  20.  We  have  perhaps  $80  in  the  world — 
and  winter  arrangements  unmade — and  the  book 
delayed.  But  One  knows. 

“Dressing  and  packing  till  near  time  to  go  to  train, 
twelve  o’clock.  Dr.  Scudder  in  the  car — he  and  I 
talked  furiously  a good  deal  of  the  wTay — then  I asked 
him  to  go  on  reading — and  I mused.” 

In  town  and  going  from  one  friend’s  house  to  another, 
she  writes : 

“Cars  to  Mrs.  Skinner’s — where  arrived  with  very 
glad  and  peaceful  feelings — and  for  a minute  standing 
at  my  window,  had  a nearer  glimpse  of  heaven  than 
I often  do,  with  the  prayer, — Keep  me  as  a child, 
true,  faithful,  and  pure,  so  that  when  I get  home  I 
may  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  drop  the  old  and  take 
the  new! — Could  hardly  remember  afterwards  the 
prayer  distinctly  which  had  been  so  happy  at  the 
moment.” 

Herself  still;  afraid  to  state  even  her  own  thoughts 


Writing,  Writing  399 

incorrectly.  And  this  also  is  a touch  of  old 
times. 

“ Nov.  19.  {In  town.)  Stood  up  by  my  gas  light 
after  A.  was  gone  to  bed,  reading  in  ‘The  Initials’ 
till  quite  late — and  got  into  bed  sorry  and  sorry  for 
my  self-indulgence  and  wrongdoing. 

“Nov.  23.  Home,  and  then  called  down  to  see 
Mr.  Tom  Appleton.” 

A most  comical  interview.  We  had  heard  so  often 
of  the  man,  and  never  exactly  met  him ; but  one  friend 
after  another  had  said  to  us:  “Do  you  know  Tom 
Appleton?” — “Don't  you  know  Tom  Appleton?” — 
“O  you  ought  to  know  Tom  Appleton!”  So  that 
curiosity,  and  amusement  too,  were  a little  astir  in 
us.  For  me,  indeed,  with  my  arm  in  a sling,  and 
pain  and  weakness  my  two  hand -maidens,  there  was 
little  to  do  but  look  and  listen, — and  our  friends  too 
were  rather  quiet, — but  the  scene  was  amusing  enough. 
Not  David  with  his  sling,  and  Goliath  in  his  armour 
of  brass,  were  more  unlike,  than  this  utter  man  of 
the  world  and  my  dear  sister,  to  whom  the  promises 
of  God  were  sweet.  And  I think  a little  perception 
of  this  may  have  put  Mr.  Appleton  not  at  his  best. 
Almost  his  first  remark  was  a commonplace  pun  over 
my  suffering  hand,  and  when  I answered  “yes,  I had 
been  told  that  before,”  there  was  a hint  of  morti- 
fication in  his  reply — “I  suppose  you  have  heard  it 
very  often.”  Further  on  he  remarked  that  “Paris 
is  the  place  where  good  Americans  go  when  they 
die,” — and  finally  came  this  most  comical  clash  of 
swords : 

“Miss  Warner,  do  you  know  that  you  are  very  like 
Florence  Nightingale?” 

“I  have  been  told  so.” 


400 


Susan  Warner 


“The  resemblance  is  striking.  Have  you  ever  seen 
her  picture  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Horrid,  is  n’t  it?” 

“No,”  said  my  sister  with  kindling  zeal : “beautiful ! ” 
Then  each  realised  what  each  had  said ; and  the  “well 
of  silence”  was  profound.  O how  I wanted  to  laugh! 
But  Mr.  Tom  Appleton  was  too  much  of  a stranger, 
and  nobody  led  the  way.  All  through  the  rest  of 
his  visit,  every  now  and  then  my  one  free  hand  went 
up  to  my  mouth  to  hide  the  laugh  that  wTanted  to 
come.  It  was  all  so  like  my  sister!  Her  eager  admi- 
ration for  Florence  Nightingale,  putting  quite  out  of 
sight  the  unlucky  slur  upon  herself.  The  sparkling 
eyes  as  she  started  forward  in  defence,  the  quick 
energetic  utterance,  the  utter  unconsciousness  and 
forgetting  of  herself.  Mr.  Tom  Appleton  met  his 
match  for  once.  Of  course  it  was  only  a bit  of  left- 
handedness  in  him. 

“Nov.  29.  Reflection  first — that  after  one  has 
certain  needfuls  and  desirables  for  one’s  proper  per- 
sonal care  and  living — which  may  be  in  very  plain 
and  inexpensive  materials,  money  can  in  that  kind 
do  little  more!  I realise  it  now.  We  went  after 
breakfast  down  to  Stewart’s  and  the  Bank  and  Ball 
& Black’s — getting  myself  the  indulgence  of  much- 
wanted  sleeve-pins;  my  conscience  felt  it  somewhat 
as  an  indulgence  afterwards,  but  I wanted  them.” 
That  winter  of  1859-60  was  most  happily  arranged 
for  in  town;  and  a good  deal  of  society  work  came 
in  our  way,  which  was  no  doubt  a great  help.  But 
it  was  a strange,  mixed-up  year.  I was  in  the  doctor’s 
hands  and  could  do  but  little;  friends  who  had  been 
dear  to  us  were  caught  by  cross-currents  and  drifted 


Writing,  Writing  401 

away;  and  my  sister  as  usual  took  it  hard.  Setting 
her  heart  eagerly,  as  in  the  old  days,  upon  what  she 
wanted;  yet  fighting  loyally  for  true  acceptance  of 
the  Lord’s  most  perfect  will. 

‘‘If  it  pleased  God,”  she  writes,  “I  could  wish  for 
the  dear  love  of  a friend — but  as  he  will!  Even  so, 
God  rules  all.  O child,  why  are  you  weary?” 

“Mrs.  Cruger  arranged  all  about  the  Thirteenth  St. 
house  this  morning,  to  my  great  joy.  And  oh  to 
my  great  thankfulness  to  God, — may  he  make  it 
stand,  if  it  please  him.  How  he  has  taken  care  of 
us  every  day  since  we  came  hither,  and  how  I have 
doubted  and  worried  and  feared,  and  still  he  has 
provided!  Now  trust  him,  in  shadow  and  in  light! 
henceforward  forever.” 

Very  characteristic  too,  was  her  disappointment 
at  Christmas  time.  On  the  21st  she  says: 

“I  went  down  to  Stewart’s  and  up  Broadway, 
getting  a few  little  things  to  send  the  children  at 
home.  Looking  at  Bibles — wishing  to  give  a full 
set  of  the  Paragraph  Bible  to  A. — but  I must  not! 
$16.50  is  more  than  it  would  be  right  to  spend.” 
Then, 

“Dec.  24.  Engaged  to  go  with  Mrs.  R.  to  6\ 
service  a. m.  tomorrow  at  Dr.  Muhlenberg’s.  A heavy, 
heavy  package  lying  on  our  trunk  at  night — did  n’t 
open  it,  but  it  had  a pleasant  savour  of  Christmas — 
in  the  spiriting  effect  of  which  went  to  bed. 

“ Sunday , Dec.  25.  Up  and  ready  in  time.  Walk 
thro’  darkling  streets  in  early  morning — sweet  chant- 
ing— greens  prettily  disposed  dressing  the  church — 
sweet  boys’  chanting — pretty,  pretty,  and  pleasant. 
Home  and  opened  package.  Two  splendid  pieces  of 
worthlessness — from  Miss , that  was  the  bitter- 


402 


Susan  Warner 


ness  of  it.  Almost  enough  to  make  one  doubt  the 
depth  of  the  love  that  sends  it.  And  when  I had 
been  longing  for  a paragraph  bible  to  give  A.  and 
would  value  a thousand  useful  trifles,  to  have  a quan- 
tity of  money  thrown  away  on  what  I never  wish 
to  look  at! — the  books  for  people  that  do  not  read, 
and  worlds  of  art  for  those  who  have  not  eyes — 
that  are  those  splendid  publications.’ * 

There  was  never  room  in  our  eager  life  for  anything 
but  the  intrinsic.  As  we  said  to  each  other  one  day, 
it  was  the  state  of  a ship  with  her  decks  cleared  for 
action. 

“So  goes  out  the  old  year,”  she  writes  December 
jist,  “but  we  so  tired  and  in  such  confusion  that  we 
did  n’t  too  well  realise  anything. 

“The  year  gone! — which  has  done  great  work  for 
us,  for  me.  Separated  us  more  from  earthly  hopes, — 
brought  me  nearer,  I think,  to  the  hold  of  unseen 
realities — or  at  least  to  God  and  his  love,  and  to 
absolute  trust  and  submission  to  him.  A year  which 
has  seen  us  tried,  broken,  kept  along,  cared  for,  re- 
lieved, guarded,  provided!  Thank  God! — and  may 
he  keep  me  near  to  him,  faithful  to  him,  always! 

“ Jan . 2,  i860.  Gave  Annie  her  trunk  before  break- 
fast— real  nice!  and  a wise  thing.  She  gave  me  bon- 
bons— not  having  been  able  to  suit  herself  yet  with 
something  greater.  The  other  house  to  breakfast 
at  nine  o’clock.  Home  to  dress,  and  gave  A.  her 
pin.  Like  it  very  much,  both  of  us.  A.  very  nice 
in  dove-colour  silk  with  cape  of  same — I cool  in  pom- 
padour with  low  neck,  hidden  by  my  rose-de-chine 
Shetland  shawl.  We  sat  in  the  blue  room  all  day 
alone,  working  at  proofs.  Saw  the  Capt.  first  in  the 
hall,  where  table  set  for  great  dinner.  F.  at  four 


Writing,  Writing  403 

o’clock — very  short,  very  good  little  visit.  At  dinner 
talked  a deal  and  got  on  very  well.  Dinner  at  7 or 
7 1 — tea  at  11.20.  Late  doings! 

“Jan.  11.  The  carriage — which  was  delightful. 
Errands  for  Mrs.  C. — York  St.  to  find  Mercy,  whom 
found  and  engaged.  Home,  and  no  range  fire,  Mrs. 
Martin  sick.  In  desperation,  made  it  myself — then 
came  Hannah  and  made  it  fairly.  I had  sent  home 
a chicken  and  oysters.  Now  I prepared  the  former — 
I shrank  from  it,  and  all  but  gave  over — but  I did 
draw  and  wash  and  cut  up  the  thing — or  half  of  it — 
and  we  had  it  fricasseed,  with  tea,  for  lunch.  Too 
tired  to  wash  dishes  then.  Sat  and  worked  and 
rested  till  growing  dark — then  washed  my  dishes, 
made  cocoa,  and  took  it. 

“Jan.  2Q.  Sunday.  Reading  to  Mercy  in  Saints 
Rest — which  she  enjoyed  and  which  is  gloriously  fine. 
It  did  me  good.  What  a thing,  to  write  such  a book 
which  for  ages  after  goes  on  quickening,  refreshing, 
converting  other  souls! 

“Jan.  ji.  Not  brilliant  for  work.  Wrote  a while — 
A.  and  I went  out  and  walked — home,  and  dress,  and 
Gertrude  Livingston — who  kept  me  past  dinner  hour. 
Then  Mrs.  Morgan  for  another  long  time.  I too  tired 
to  be  brilliant.  Get  to  writing  at  last,  and  in  comes 
Harriet  Whetton.  If  this  was  the  way,  we  should 
have  to  take  a reception  day  or  do  something  des- 
perate. Then  soon  darkness  comes  on — and  tea — 
and  the  evening  work  must  not  last  too  late.  Almost 
done.”  (Say  and  Seal  proofs.)  ‘‘Projecting  ‘Wych 
Hazel’  already.  Have  not  the  greatest  spirit  for  it. 
But  we  want  money — and  if  God  will  bless  it — it  is 
blessed.  We  are  very  poor  just  at  the  present 
time. 


404 


Susan  Warner 


11  Feb.  i.  Work,  work,  and  get  off  all  the  last  of 
the  copy  and  the  preface.  Poor  little  book,  which 
I love  very  much. 

11  Feb.  5.  Sunday.  Aunty,  A.  and  I to  hear  Dr. 
Bethune.  A real  ambassador’s  message,  faithfully 
delivered,  very  fine  and  effective.  ‘This  is  a faithful 
saying,’  etc.  Indulgence  in  wrong  thoughts  today — 
and  purpose  of  heart  at  night  to  be  and  act  always 
the  servant  of  God.” 

Another  day , with  one  of  her  old  impracticable  wish- 
es, she  says : 

“Have  a care  upon  me  of  doing  something  to  bring 
our  end  up  again — but  it ’s  a bore.  Would  like  to 
be  put  into  society  and  pleasantly  kept  in  it,  more 
or  less,  without  any  exertion — receiving  entertain- 
ments, but  giving  few,  and  going  about  in  a carriage. 
That  is  what  I should  like.  A.  has  very  little  strength 
to  do  anything,  and  I not  much. 

“Feb.  ig.  Sunday.  Read  a book  Miss  Haines 
lent  me,  Professor  Phelps’  ‘Still  Hour.’  A wonderful 
book;  it  made  a good  day  for  me.  It  went  home, 
and  shewed  me  far  wrong  and  out  of  the  way,  in 
that  matter  at  least.  So  tried  to  come  back — and 
had  a day  for  which  I should  thank  God.  A day  of 
opening  my  eyes  over  again  to  see  what  the  Chris- 
tian walk  may  be — and  of  setting  my  hand  and  my 
foot  thitherward. 

“Feb.  25.  (One  of  our  simple  ‘at  home’  evenings.) 
Got  things  in  very  nice  readiness,  Aunty  and  we,  and 
the  evening  was  a pretty  one.  Mrs.  01m  first,  then 
Miss  Hedges— Mr.  and  Mrs.  C.  W.  Field,  Grade  and 
Alice — Mrs.  Douglas  Robinson,  Miss  Naudain,  Mr.  G. 
Douglas,  Professor  Smith,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  Field, 
Dr.  Hutton.  That  was  all,  I believe.  ‘Wigs’  and 


Writing,  Writing 


405 


coffee,  very  good.  The  gentlemen  had  a pretty  good 
time — Mr.  Douglas  was  the  last  one  here. 

“ Next  day.  Met  Hannah  going  to  put  up  Mr.  C’s 
room — spoke  to  her  about  religious  joys  and  duties — 
she  began,  poor  thing,  to  cry.  She  used  to  go  to 
the  Communion,  when  she  lived  at  Mr.  D’s — never 
since.  Poor  thing! 

“ March  1.  Reading  ‘Quits’  a great  part  of  the 
day — delightful!  Have  not  read  so  delicious  a book 
this  long  while. 

“ March  12.  Mrs.  Jaffray  told  me  a pretty  thing 
about  a boy’s  interest  in  ‘W.  W.  World.’  Ah,  that 
little  book  which  I prayed  over!  Truly,  ‘God  is  the 
Judge;  he  putteth  down  one,  and  setteth  up  another.’” 

In  May  she  writes  of  a service  in  Dr.  Bethune’s 
church,  when  we  had  had  some  new  lessons  set 
us: 

‘‘Text  from  Rev.  xxi  * God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  their  eyes,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,’ 
etc.  And  hymns — ‘There  is  a land  of  pure  delight,’ 
‘High  in  yonder  realms  of  light,’  ‘Jerusalem  my  happy 
home.’  It  was  hard  for  us  both,  and  the  question 
comes  up,  why  we  have  had  this  pain  and  pleasure 
again-  at  this  time?  But  I can  leave  all  in  God’s 
hand  now — and  it  is  sweet — but  the  day  tired  us  very 
much.” 

A friend  in  England,  unknown  except  by  letter, 
had  sent  her  a box  of  English  books.  At  home  at 
the  Island  now,  she  says : 

‘‘I  delectate  myself  with  my  box  of  books,  at  times 
when  too  tired  to  go  on  with  work.  Sit  down  beside 
it  and  open  one  and  another — sometimes,  finding  it 
hard  to  settle  steadily  upon  any  one  to  read.  Have 
begun  ‘North  and  South,’  and  read  two  chapters  in 


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Susan  Warner 


‘Julian  Home/  What  a precious  box  to  me!  the 
leaves  all  uncut. 

“ June  3.  Sunday  (at  home  for  some  reason). 
Quiet  reading,  and  praying  over  it.  Hosea  in  the 
morning,  looking  out  references,  and  after  dinner  a 
little  of  Spurgeon,  which  I like,  and  Bonar  on  Levi- 
ticus. Trying  all  day  to  get  a clearer,  more  assured 
and  calm  state  of  feeling — and  I know  not  how  or 
why,  towards  evening  it  came — more  peacefully  sweet 
than  I have  known  for  some  time.  I thank  my  God, 
w’ho  by  whatever  means  gave  it.  And  by  his  grace 
I will  keep  it,  to  live,  even  here,  near  him. 

11  July  7.  After  tea  A.  went  down  to  fish.  I got 
in  the  boat  and  pulled  a little  up  and  down — at  in- 
tervals resting  and  reading  the  meditation  in  Morn- 
ing and  Night  Watches — and  praying — good  under 
that  evening  sky,  and  very  good  to  me. 

“ July  9.  Reading  seems  the  best  medicine  for  me, 
or  one  of  the  best.  I seem  to  have  a kind  of  hunger 
for  it,  and  it  soothes  and  fills  me.  After  tea  went 
out  crabbing — mais  point — and  then  I rowed  them, 
Aunty  and  A.,  up  and  down  under  a twilight  sky. 
Air  soft  and  delicious — clouds  beautiful,  great  grey 
draperies  of  them,  with  the  sky  between  or  in  other 
quarters  so  clear  and  fair.  Pretty,  pretty.  Feel 
better. 

“July  20.  (Coming  home  from  a visit  to  Wilder- 
cliffe.)  Pleasant  and  sweet  our  visit  and  intercourse 
has  been!  A rest,  and  a good  of  great  value.  Good 
journey  home,  without  evil  or  fear.  I glad,  and  in 
good  spirits  and  mood  eat  my  raspberries  and  tea; — 
then  taken  aback  by  Lippincott’s  statement  of  $1,500 
due  to  us.  I had  looked  for  something  like  a thou- 
sand more.  Greatly  taken  down  for  a little,  and 


Writing,  Writing  4°7 

shewed  it.  I said  God’s  will  be  done,  and  felt  it — 
but  the  loss  of  my  visions  of  a little  rest  and  ease 
and  elbow-room,  I also  felt.  This  must  set  me  to 
work.” 

(Next  day.)  “God  knows  best — and  I am  happy 
in  him — in  his  word — more  than  for  a good  while 
past.  . . . Feel  I must  work,  and  ought  to  be  brave. 
Must  be  economical  too,  to  make  our  funds  last  till 
we  can  get  another  book  out.  A little  mortified  that 
‘Say  and  Seal’  should  not  have  done  greater  things. 
And  had  had  a vision  of  giving  A.  for  birthday  Thier’s 
‘Consulate  and  Empire.’  Can  I now?  I doubt.  I 
must  be  very  prudent.  But  I am  happy — and  hope 
by  faith  to  be  happier.” 

Of  a Sunday,  later,  she  says : 

“A  good  sweet  day — seeking  to  know  more  of  ‘the 
kingdom,’  in  my  own  growth  and  life  and  standing.” 

Through  all  that  summer  and  fall,  guests  were 
coming  and  going  in  very  lively  style.  People  to 
breakfast,  and  people  to  dinner,  and  people  to  tea, 
and  for  the  night.  Involving,  of  course,  not  merely 
“waffles  and  coffee”  and  their  confreres,  but  rows 
on  the  river — scrambles  among  our  rocks — and  dressed  - 
up  excursions  to  West  Point;  with  talks  and  dis- 
cussions about  all  sorts  of  pleasant  and  worth-while 
things.  The  surface  conversation  of  so  many  houses 
never  had  place  in  ours ; with  two  such  eager, 
earnest  hearts  as  my  father  and  sister,  commonplace 
found  no  footing, — and  in  her  gayest  days  my  dear 
Aunt  Fanny  had  never  talked  either  dress  or 
gossip. 

It  was  all  very  good  for  us,  I suppose;  and  cer- 
tainly enjoyed ; what  though  it  interrupted  other 
work,  and  taxed  our  strength.  But  it  was  a whole- 


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Susan  Warner 


some  tonic  for  heart-fatigue  and  care.  So  were  some 
books. 

“I  am  reading  Hugh  Miller’s  Testimony  of  the 
Rocks,  and  Russell’s  Diary  in  India — and  began 
a while  ago  Conybeare  and  Howson.  Like  them  all 
dearly.  How  good  is  reading — how  much  I need  it.” 
'‘Am  thinking,”  she  says  (Aug.  21),  “of  the  pos- 
sibility or  eligibility  of  our  making  a child’s  paper 
and  printing  it  ourselves — to  begin  with  at  any  rate. 
Some  means  of  getting  a better  income  with  less  hard 
work!” 

“Wych  Hazel”  went  on  as  steadily  as  could  be 
expected  in  the  circumstances ; and  exercise  was 
plenty  and  varied.  Riding  on  horseback,  rowing,  and 
many  long  walks  among  our  rocks  or  at  the  Point. 
Crabbing  was  one  of  our  special  open-air  diversions; 
but  my  sister  makes  one  comical  private  note : 

“Going  crabbing  tries  my  temper  more  than  most 
things — getting  moored  and  all  that,  I mean,  and 
being  advised  and  interfered  with.” 

“Oct.  7.  Well  under  way  with  Wych  Hazel.  But 
oh!  the  other  work  to  be  done — and  done  by  me! 
letters,  sewing,  winter  preparations,  reading  that  should 
be — how  much  of  all  these.  And  strength  is  so  in- 
sufficient. Only  when  I ride,  it  is  tripled.  Reading 
Villette — how  fine!  it  is  stimulating. 

“Oct.  75.  They  all  went  over  to  see  the  Prince — 
I stayed  at  home.  . . . The  guns  of  the  salute  made 
me  feel  not  pleasantly — something  in  the  bringing 
the  Antipodes  of  society,  so  well  known  in  imagina- 
tion, actually  so  near — it  stirred  me.” 

There  was  little  to  stir  one  in  the  actual  scene, 
however.  The  English  party,  in  rather  rough  and 
ready  travelling  dress,  rode  up  two  and  two  with  the 


Writing,  Writing  4°9 

West  Point  officers  in  their  spic  and  span  appoint- 
ments. Up  the  hill  road,  from  where  the  “Harriet 
Lane”  lay  moored.  Hill  and  plain  in  a glory  of 
October  light  and  colour;  and  some  seven  thousand 
people  spotting  and  framing  the  green. 

In  such  a throng  one  picks  out  few  details;  little 
absurdities,  perhaps,  are  seen  soonest.  As  we  stood 
watching  the  review,  a small  scamp  of  a newsboy 
paraded  past  us,  fluttering  his  big  photograph  sheet, 
and  announcing : 

“ ’Ere ’s  the  Prince  o’  Wales ! Only  ten  cents ! ” 

Then  two  or  three  English  women,  of  a type  one 
sees  less  often  now  than  then,  made  themselves  con- 
spicuous. 

“Why  don’t  they  have  a horse  for  him?”  one  cried; 
“he’ll  catch  his  death  of  cold,  standing  about  on 
the  damp  turf.  But  there ’s  no  system  here,  about 
anything.” 

And  as  Gen.  Scott  in  the  old  Continental  uniform 
came  by,  the  same  good  lady  exclaimed : 

“0,  the  bombast!” 

But  it  was  a pretty  picture,  on  the  whole,  and  I 
hope  I may  be  forgiven  the  thrill  that  went  through 
my  heart,  when  as  the  battalion  marched  by,  the 
young  descendant  of  George  III  uncovered  to  the 
Stars  and  Stripes.  It  was  well  and  gracefully  done, 
by  the  whole  party. 

“Oct.  16.  Busy,  I forget  how — till  Aunty,  Anna 
and  I went  to  Lookout  Rock  to  see  the  going  off  of 
the  Prince.  The  Daniel  Drew  came  up  and  lay  at 
the  opposite  dock,  and  after  waiting  a while,  the 
Prince  and  suite  came  down  the  hill  and  embarked — 
band  playing,  and  the  battery  giving  tongue  as  soon 
as  the  ‘Drew’  fairly  was  off.  How  fair!  sky  veiled 


4io 


Susan  Warner 


with  cloud,  blue  in  south — hills  in  excellent  colours — 
guns  reporting  through  the  hills,  and  smoke  a beau- 
tiful cloud,  hanging  on  the  face  of  the  Point — lastly 
guns  from  the  heavy  ordnance  at  the  dock,  where 
the  smoke  sat  like  a swan  upon  the  water. 

11  Oct.  2j.  Set  about  writing — pondered  and  cogi- 
tated and  wrote  a while,  and  then  found  we  were 
knocking  our  heads  together.  Somehow  we  do  that 
in  this  book.  Got  into  a little  of  a muss — then  got 
out  of  it  and  went  on.  Machining  after  dinner — 
then  the  woods!  Father  and  we.  Such  a time! 
The  target  field — pine  trees  down  and  trimmed — a 
big  bonfire  and  feeding  it,  with  green  brush  and  dry 
brush — cutting  cedars — clearing  the  beautiful  ground, 
— fair  weather — the  river  soft  and  still  seen  between 
the  trees.  Like  a dream,  so  beautiful  it  all  was. 
Worked  hard. 

11  Oct.  24.  The  day  is,  sewing,  writing,  machining, 
and  woodwork — or  rather,  the  days  are  these.  Went 
in  the  morning  today,  Father  and  Harris  and  all. 
Went  on  with  yesterday’s  place  of  work.  Such  beauty ! 
but  I got  myself  spent  with  work.  Reading  the 
Prince  of  the  House  of  David  still — and  I like  it. 
That  is,  I enjoy  it  very  much — more,  I believe,  than 
in  the  abstract  I like  the  book.  Writing  don’t  get 
on  very  fast.  In  the  evening  Anna  reads  Amyas 
Leigh  to  us — I like  that  too,  very  much.  And  sew- 
ing  gets  on  the  while.  Work  is  pleasant — and  days 
are  sweet,  and  the  name  of  Jesus  is  precious,  these 
days.” 

After  the  next  day’s  work,  she  says : 

“Home  to  reading,  rest,  and  coffee — and  writing 
and  machining — and  tea,  and  reading,  and  sewing. 
Were  ever  such  busy  people!  were  there  ever!  Kind 


Writing,  Writing  411 

letters  yesterday  from  Mrs.  Prentiss  and  Mrs.  Cummins 
of  Baltimore. 

“Nov.  4.  Sunday.  Not  quite  so  sweet  a day  as 
last  Sunday.  I spent  too  much  time  trying  hymn 
tunes  with  Anna,  and  thereby  robbed  myself.  I get 
tired,  and  she  gets  tired  and  unfit  for  anything  of  serious 
work — so  there  is  temptation — but  I gave  it  too  much 
of  my  day.  Sundays  are  good  days  to  me  now — 
good  and  not  too  long.  And  the  name  of  Christ  is 
more  near  and  dear  than  sometimes.  I think  that 
book  ‘The  Prince  of  the  House  of  David’  has  had  a 
pleasant  effect  on  me  at  least — whatever  the  book 
in  itself  be — and  it  is  not  faultless.  I was  not  read- 
ing  that  today.”  It  was  the  “Divine  Human  in  the 
Scriptures.” 

In  town  two  days  later : 

“Felt  singularly  happy  this  evening — partly  from 
gladness  at  having  the  journey  nicely  over  and  being 
well  here,  but  I rejoiced,  greatly,  in  God  and  my 
relations  to  him,  and  went  to  bed  in  a sweet  state 
of  feeling. 

“Nov.  17.  John  took  us  to  the  station — a good 
ride  up — and  at  home!  Oh  how  sweet,  how  pure, 
how  still,  how  comfortable,  how  lovely!  If  we  could 
stay  here  this  winter.  I thought  about  it.  I cannot 
see  our  way  clear,  that  it  is  best.  I cannot.  We  are 
pretty  tired  today.  But  oh  how  sweet  home  is!  how 
good  our  own  tea  and  coffee,  and  cold  veal!  It ’s 
odd,  how  much  better  our  table  is  than  anybody 
else’s. 

“Nov.  27.  Read  the  P.  of  the  H.  of  D.  still  these 
days,  by  turns — it  has  been  good  to  me,  though  I 
would  not  put  it  in  all  hands.  Have  taken  to  reading 
the  newspapers — times  are  so  interesting.  The  South 


412 


Susan  Warner 


making  a great  bluster  about  going  off  from  the  Union.’ * 

In  town  for  the  winter:  “Think  we  are  in  a way 
to  be  very  comfortable — and  I am  thankful.  With- 
out the  presence  of  God  I have  nothing.  That  I 
desire. 

“Dec.  23.  Sunday.  The  day  on  the  whole  a very 
good  and  precious  one.  Of  all  things  now  to  be  more 
and  more  near  my  Lord. 

“ Christmas  eve.  During  a pleasant  chatty  call 
from  friends,  the  door  opens  and  in  comes  the  waiter 
woman  bringing  in — I saw  what  immediately.  Imag- 
ine the  largest  kind  of  soap  bubble  suddenly  vitrified, 
and  that  some  fairy  had  engraven  with  mimic  stars. 
The  same  fairy  ha  ving  twisted  an  arch  of  vine  stems 
has  touched  them  to  gold  with  her  wand  and  suspended 
the  glass  bubble  there;  and  in  it  floats  a tiny  gold  fish. 
How  exquisite!  And  how  sweet  to  know  Christmas 
eve,  by  a tangible  evidence,  that  somebody  is  thinking 
of  us  lovingly.  It  was  very  grateful.” 

Speaking  of  other  gifts  that  came  New  Year’s  eve, 
she  adds : 

“So  ends  the  year  ’60.  A good  year,  in  which 
God  has  taken  gentle  care  of  us — all  the  year  through. 
Which  ends  in  very  sweet  resting  in  him,  and  desiring 
him  only  and  above  all. 

“ Tuesday , Jan.  j,  1861.  I will  speak  good  of  this 
day.  The  old  year  is  out  and  the  new  has  come  in, 
with  great  rest  and  joy  in  God.  The  desire  of  my 
heart  is  unto  him  and  to  the  remembrance  of  his 
name.  His  name  is  good  and  precious  to  me;  to 
know  him  and  to  do  his  will,  I desire  above  all  things 
in  the  world.  The  past  year  has  somehow  done  a 
good  deal  of  work  for  A.  and  me.  We  have  had, 
pretty  present-giving — Anna’s  lorgnette  and  Russell’s 


Writing,  Writing  4T3 

Crimea — Aunty’s  dress,  night-gowns,  cap  pins,  cap, 
and  Spurgeon — father’s  ‘Nature  and  the  Supernatural’ 
and  figs — and  my  buckle,  slippers,  chocolates,  hood, 
wrapper.  Aunty  very  pleased. 

“Jan.  5.  Duty  to  go  out.  So  went,  alone,  to 
Mrs.  Prentiss’ — saw  her,  had  a nice  long  talk.  Her 
experience  in  defalcation  of  friends,  Mrs.  M.  to  wit., 
etc.,  very  strange.  To  Miss  Hedges,  and  saw  her. 
Then  a minute  or  two  with  Miss  Haines — and  home 
to  lunch.  Clam  soup,  delicious,  cold  coffee  warmed, 
and  bread.  Out  then  to  get  a table  for  father’s  writ- 
ing, and  bread,  etc.  Home,  and  finish  a night-gown — 
hem  it,  that  is.  Anna  and  Aunty  meanwhile  go  down 
and  get  a stereoscope  and  a half  dozen  views — which 
I am  shown  after  tea.  Oh  delicious!  oh  delicious! 
What  is  so  good?  So  ends  this  first  week  of  ’61. 
God  keep  us  true  to  him.” 

Under  date  Jan.  ythf  she  writes:  “Company  day — 
glad  to  sit  at  home.  Worked  nicely  at  getting  my 
morning  dress  trimmed  over.  Lunch  upstairs  of  nice 
clam  soup  and  coffee.  Worth  while  to  keep  record 
of  our  meals,  almost,  with  the  expense,  for  a while. 
Mrs.  A.  and  L.  surprised  me  a little  by  coming — 
very  benign.  I am  glad — I would  rather  be  on  speak- 
ing terms  with  the  world.  Also  Mrs.  Sturges  and 
Mrs.  Osborn.  The  day  being  sloppy  and  cloudy, 
and  even  rainy,  nobody  else.  In  the  evening  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Prentiss  for  a good  long  talk.  ‘All  is 
temporary,  but  the  bosom  of  Jesus.  ’ Once  know  that, 
and  the  place  of  rest  is  found  for  all  time.” 

Jan.  8th  she  writes : 

“To  see  Miss  McIntosh,  who  is  in  mourning  for  her 
brother.  Sat  a good  while,  she  talking  warmly  about 
Switzerland.  Thought  as  I came  home,  it  would  be 


4T4 


Susan  Warner 


a good  way  when  I feel  good  for  nothing,  to  go  and 
give  somebody  else  pleasure.  Before  tea,  Sophy 
and  Mr.  Herrick.  Thro’  yesterday’s  slop  and  slush, 
she  was  going  about  in  tenement  houses  near  the 
East  river,  doing  good  and  preaching — in  her  way. 
And  it  was  such  a happy  day.” 

My  New  Year’s  gift  to  my  sister,  of  a stereoscope 
and  six  views,  had  great  results.  All  Winter,  we 
took  our  special  little  bits  of  rest  and  play,  in  this  new 
found  world  of  enchantment  and  travel.  Sometimes 
at  Anthony’s  standard  house,  turning  over  box  after 
box  of  finest  views ; wanting  them  all,  and  coming  down 
at  last  to  one  or  two  that  we  must  have ; — sometimes 
finding  cheaper  collections  elsewhere,  with  here  and 
there  an  excellent  view  among  much  comparative 
rubbish. 

11  Jan.  g.  Threatening  snow.  A.  and  I -went  out 
when  wre  had  got  the  fish  and  breakfast  things  in 
order.  To  Dr.  Gray — to  Carters — to  buy  gas  fur- 
nace and  cooker. — To  Stereoscopic  Co.,  where  spent 
a good  deal  of  time  turning  over  a tableful  of  ‘views’ 
thrown  together  for  One  Dollar  per  dozen.  A.  found 
a dozen,  some  beauties,  with  which  we  came  home 
enriched.  So  lovely,  so  fine,  so  interesting,  so  in- 
structive. Melrose,  and  the  Castle  of  Edinburgh,  and 
a street  in  Canterbury — and  old  buildings  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  others.  I got  a bit  of  the  Mer  de  Glace. 

“Jan.  io.  Cleared  off,  or  ceased  to  storm,  and 
A.  and  I went  down  to  look  at  tliat  tableful  of  ‘ view's  ’ 
while  yet  they  are  there.  And  taking  them  with 
system,  we  wrent  over  the  whole  table!  an  enormous 
wrork,  scarcely  missing  a dozen  or  so  of  them  all. 
Selected  a fine  two  dozen, — with  which  trophy  got 
home  at  a quarter  to  three!  The  people  that  come 


Writing,  Writing  415 

after  us  won’t  get  much.  Lizzie  Donaldson,  Lizzie 
Washington,  and  Miss  Smith  came  to  tea — three 
young  ones.  A pretty  evening.  Mr.  Willy  Don- 
aldson when  he  came  brought  news  that  Major  Ander- 
son had  destroyed  Fort  Moultrie  and  was  bombarding 
Charleston.  It  was  very  bad  news  to  us — and  to 
me.” 

Next  day.  “News  no  news.  No  such  thing  as 
bombardment  of  Charleston  or  destroying  Moultrie. 
Threats , and  the  real  firing  into  ‘The  Star  of  the 
West’  steamer  by  the  mad  rebels.  Breathe  freer, 
and  feel  like  looking  at  ‘views’  again.  What  great 
pleasure!  what  exquisite  refreshment!  what  rich  in- 
struction. And  we  have  now  in  all  got  three  dozen 
and  a half,  excellent  ones,  for  Five  Dollars.  It ’s 
ridiculous,  but  so  good.  Cold  weather.  I went  out 
of  errands  in  the  morning,  alone — afternoon,  sewing 
and  ‘views.’  Old  ruins,  English  and  Egyptian  and 
Welsh — and  beauties  various — ah,  how  lovely.  I hope 
I am  thankful.” 

Another  day  she  says : 

“Oh  our  beautiful  views!  O the  delight  of  travel- 
ling so , and  feasting  one’s  eyes  and  heart  with  beauties 
and  antiquities  of  many  kinds. 

“ Jan . 15.  Day  appointed  to  go  with  Miss  Ward 
and  be  introduced  to  Dr.  Cogswell.  A.  sick  with 
headache — too  much  to  go.  I went.” 

Dr.  Cogswell  was  then  Librarian  of  the  Astor  Library ; 
and  this  meeting  had  most  pleasant  results.  Dr.  C. 
was  exceedingly  kind,  setting  apart  for  us  a special 
comer  and  table,  and  permitting  us  to  roam  about 
among  the  books,  and  take  down  or  ask  for  what 
we  liked.  Thither  we  went  every  week  day;  were 
often  at  the  door  before  it  was  yet  open. 


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Susan  Warner 


Further  on:  “Copied  some  ten  or  eleven  pages  of 
Wych  Hazel.  Set  myself  a task  of  ten  pages.  Wish 
I liked  the  thing  better — it  don’t  satisfy  me — don’t 
seem  strong  and  graphic  and  nervous.  However — 
perhaps  it  will  mend. 

“Jan.  18.  God  is  very  good  to  us.  We  are  en- 
joying great  comfort  in  every  respect,  and  a few 
months  ago,  how  little  we  could  guess  what  was  going 
to  become  of  us  for  the  winter.  It  is  a pleasant  way, 
to  live  trusting  him;  but  to  do  it  in  darkness  as  well 
as  in  light! 

“Jan.  20.  I went  to  Dr.  Tyng’s.  Good,  not 
great  discourse — but  I enjoyed  the  service,  as  I can 
sometimes,  and  I enjoyed  seeing  my  dear  Miss  Haines 
up  in  the  gallery,  and  knowing  that  she  was  in  the 
church.  How  apt  and  strange  now  the  petitions 
which  used  to  seem  to  have  such  a far-away  adap- 
tation— ‘from  all  sedition,  privy  conspiracy,  and 
rebellion’ — and  the  words  of  prayer  for  Congress. 

“I  have  found  out  that  we  are  very  poor — must 
work,”  she  writes  a week  later: 

“Just  as  I was  thinking  we  had  got  clear  of  ex- 
penses, comes  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  As  tor  for 
Wednesday  week.  Must  go.  I have  no  dress!  Oh 
New  York!  Want  the  money  for  a dozen  other 
things.” 

Robertson’s  sermons  (one  volume)  were  lent  her 
by  Miss  Ward,  but  found  small  favour. 

“They  trouble  me,”  she  writes,  “they  are  false. 
They  are  bad,  though  not  written  by  a bad  man; 
but  one  who  shaves  down  Scripture. 

“Feb.  13.  Library  in  the  morning.  I am  at 
Agassiz  on  Glaciers  yet.  What  good  times  of  study 
we  do  have.  In  our  quiet  corner,  with  luxury  of 


Writing,  Writing  4*7 

books  and  information-getting  and  quiet,  and  no 
interruptions ! It ’s  delightful. 

“ March  ij.  I went  up  to  see  Mrs.  Kemble  and 
saw  her.  A nice,  very  enjoyable  visit. 

“ March  16.  Library — nice  study  almost  every 
day.  Then,  after  lunch  I went  calling.  To  Miss 
Haines,  and  found  her  come  home.  Better,  but  she 
has  been  very  ill  in  Boston,  and  is  very  feeble.  Then 
I went  to  Mrs.  Bancroft — a levee  there.  Mesdames 
Rutherford  and  Bryant  and  Gibbs  and  Valerio  and 
others.  Could  n’t  get  away  soon.  Then  to  Mrs.  E. 
Smith  to  see  about  Miss  Hedges’  poor  lost  S.  S.  scholar 
— then  home  and  met  Anna  near  the  door — turned 
about  and  went  to  Irving  Place  with  her.  Busy  day — 
like  many  days  just  now. 

“ March  17.  To  church  at  Dr.  Tyng’s — my  dear 
Miss  Haines’  sweet  pale  face  was  up  in  the  gallery. 
I enjoyed  the  service.  Staid  at  home  afternoon  and 
enjoyed  that,  with  my  Bible.  A good  and  sweet  day. 

“ March  ig.  Snowy  day — went  to  Library,  but 
not  out  again  till  evening — then  to  Mrs.  Delano’s. 
Just  Mrs.  Astor  and  Miss  Ward  and  a sister  of  Mr. 
Delano  there.  How  pleasant;  one  of  the  nicest  even- 
ings I have  had  out  this  winter.  Talk,  and  talk — 
photographs  and  music  (I  like  the  first  best),  billiards 
and  talk — nice  little  supper  of  oysters,  etc. — talk  enfin 
till  when  I got  home  was  shocked  to  find  it  twelve 
o’clock.  A very,  very  nice  evening,  and  lovely  women, 
all  three.  Russell,  the  London  Times  man,  is  come, 
to  take  note  of  us ! 

“ March  20.  Evening.  I was  willing  enough  to 
have  stayed  at  home — but  Mrs.  Rutherford’s  night, 
and  she  had  asked  me, — dressed  and  went.  Had  a 
better  time  than  usual — good  talks — with  Miss  Wad- 


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Susan  Warner 


dington  and  Mrs.  Schuyler  lastly  and  specially.  Home 
by  about  twelve.  Oh  New  York!  But  it  is  good 
too.  I am  happy  this  week.  Has  Sunday  breathed 
its  sweetness  all  over  the  days?” 

Not  much  of  the  so-called  “blue”  Puritan  Sab- 
bath; still  less  of  the  merrymaking  idea  of  today. 
A Sunday  “with  her  Bible”  breathes  its  sweetness 
through  all  the  week.  Sometimes  we  indulged  in 
very  old-fashioned  athletics — -as  here. 

“ March  21.  As  A.  wished  to  keep  our  appoint- 
ment with  the  Morgans,  I got  ready  and  she  and  I 
walked  up  there  to  tea,  through  wind  and  snow — 
pretty  thick.  Then  Father  came  for  us  and  through 
the  storm  again  we  walked  home, — a good  earnest 
storm  it  was  now,  with  snow  under  foot  and  wind 
at  comers  of  street.” 

Next  day  sounds  a note  of  jubilation: 

“No  engagement  for  this  evening!” 

Another  Sunday : 

“Got  a little  good  reading — on  lovely  ‘ladder’  of 
verses  in  my  Bible,  and  a good  chapter  in  the  ‘Great 
Teacher.’  . . . My  ladder,  ‘It  is  good  for  me  to 
draw  nigh  to  God.’  Stand  by  that,  my  heart,  and 
mount.” 

“Ladders” — We  had  given  the  name  to  the  sets 
of  thought  references  in  Bagster’s  miniature  quarto 
Bible. 

The  days  go  on,  with  a pretty  full  freight;  stirred 
and  shadowed  and  vivified  by  the  state  of  public 
affairs.  Driving  through  the  city  streets  one  night 
to  a lecture,  suddenly  the  newsboys  begin  to  shout: 
“Fall  of  Fort  Sumter!”  Or  friends  pause  and 
cluster  on  the  way  from  church,  to  tell  of  somebody’s 
telegram.  Or  a young  volunteer  comes  hurrying 


Writing,  Writing  4J9 

along — a mere  boy  in  uniform;  and  all  hearts  jump 
and  eyes  overflow.  It  was  good  to  get  away  from 
town,  and  beyond  hearing  “extras.” 

But  the  state  of  things  made  it  extremely  hard 
to  get  helpers  in  any  peaceful  ways;  and  household 
work  at  the  Island  came  down  upon  our  already 
full  hands.  What  my  sister  would  once  have  called 
“household  drudgery.”  Doubtless  she  so  esteemed 
it,  still,  in  itself, — but  the  stone  the  philosophers 
never  found,  lies  close  at  hand  to  the  believer. 

ilMay  ii.  This  has  been  a pleasant  week,”  she 
writes.  “For  almost  the  first  time  in  my  life,  it 
seems  to  me,  I have  in  the  little  matters  of  hourly 
work,  lovingly  done  my  work  for  the  Lord.  It  has 
been  sweet  passing  of  days.” 

Away  on  a visit  to  a family  of  Southern  birth,  she 
gives  a picture  well  known  in  those  war  years: 

“Politics  oddly  divided  in  this  family.  Mr.  D. 
sensible  and  patriotic — Mrs.  D.  the  reverse  of  both. 
Miss  S.  strong  for  right  and  honour — little  M.  violent 
against  the  one  and  the  other.  T.  rather  distressed 
than  taking  part — Mr.  R.  a fire-eater — Mr.  W.  desirous 
of  entering  the  Federal  army.” 

After  a tea -drinking  at  Mrs.  Astor’s : 

“Miss  Ward  pleased  me  much  by  avowing  her 
trust  in  me,  as  a friend,  if  she  wanted  some  one  to 
confide  in.’  ’ 

“July  2.  Rain!  but  we  got  ready,  and  it  held  up 
just  in  good  time.  Beautiful  cool  journey,  and  windy 
row  home,  but  a beautiful,  refreshing  wind.  Not 
refreshing,  however,  was  the  news  at  home,  and  the 
home  pressure  fell  straight  and  wdth  addition  on  our 
shoulders  again.  Catherine  not  good,  and  Harris 
going  away!  Well — but  one  does  not  know  at  first 


420 


Susan  Warner 


how  to  get  along.  It  is  folly  to  be  worried — for  that 
is  not  all  evil  which  seems  such — but  the  look  of  it 
is  not  pleasant.  We  are  very  poor,  too,  and  all  that 
comes  with  its  load — only  I know  the  Lord  will  take 
care.” 

They  tell  (in  Punch  or  somewhere)  of  a small  coun- 
try shopwoman  in  England  who  being  rebuked  for 
the  high  price  of  her  earthem  pitchers,  made  answer 
briskly:  “But  think  of  the  war  in  the  Crimea!” 

The  ramifications  of  the  work  done  by  our  war 
were  endless.  People  did  not  buy  books,  for 
lack  of  heart  to  read  them;  or  because  the  money 
must  go  to  hospitals  and  the  Christian  Commission. 
The  price  of  paper  went  up,  for  old  linen  and  cotton 
of  every  sort  were  to  take  the  same  road.  Rapeseed 
oil — (until  then  always  used  in  our  student  lamp) 
jumped  to  eight  dollars  a gallon.  The  young  men 
of  the  neighbourhood  went  off  to  the  fight;  while  the 
women  helped  the  old  men  wage  the  warfare  with 
weeds  and  needs,  at  home.  For  two  or  three  years 
we  could  get  no  helper  worth  having.  We  made  our 
own  garden,  and  my  sister  and  I rowed  my  father 
across  the  river  every  day,  where  he  went  up  the  hill 
to  post-office  and  market.  Hard  pressed  we  often 
were,  but  in  those  years  nobody  minded  anything 
that  did  not  touch  the  Country. 

“July  *5-  I began  writing,  and  got  about  four 
pages  of  a child’s  story — Daisy.”  (Afterwards  called 
Melbourne  House). 

“ July  17.  Being  a glorious  day,  with  cool  north 
breeze,  I took  the  boat  and  Father  and  went  down 
to  Buttermilk  Falls  to  see  Miss  Garrettson’s  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adams.  Rowed  to  Cozzens’  dock  and 
walked  up  thence.  It  refreshed  me  very  much,  my 


Writing,  Writing  42^ 

visit,  and  being  all  Miss  G.’s  friends  we  came  close 
together  directly.  Here  is  hearty  unsparing  service 
in  the  Lord’s  cause.  Up  and  down  the  bank  of  the 
river  and  back  in  the  mountains  Mr.  Adams  goes 
and  goes,  preaching  the  word.  I had  a beautiful 
morning.” 

She  told  afterwards  what  duty  work,  at  first,  the 
visit  was, — how  as  she  pulled  along  the  silent  rock 
shore,  she  kept  saying  to  herself : ‘ ‘ Hoping  for  nothing 
again.”  So  much  one  knows.  This  friendship  with 
Mr.  Adams  became  one  of  the  closest  and  dearest 
and  most  blessed  of  any  we  ever  knew. 

“July  22.  Wrote  up  nicely — sewed,  and  so  on. 
News  of  a victory  at  Bull’s  Run,  in  the  morning. 
It  set  me  to  praying.  But  at  night,  when  we  were 
sitting  at  work,  Father  came  in  with  a report  brought 
from  Cold  Spring,  that  our  army  had  been  routed 
and  cut  to  pieces.  Oh  the  pain  of  that  moment! 
And  the  aching  and  anxiety  that  followed.  We 
knew  not  what  might  be  true.  It  was  with  us,  as 
it  were,  all  night — and  Father  said  afterwards  (I  write 
later)  he  fairly  ached  at  night,  in  the  night,  he  did 
not  know  how  he  could  bear  it.” 

So  things  looked,  to  human  eyes;  yet  that  hard 
experience  was  a great,  great  blessing.  It  waked  the 
Nation  up. 

“Aug.  14.  (In  town,  on  the  way  to  Lenox.)  After 
dinner  A.  and  I went  out  to  buy  some  warmer  dresses 
than  we  have.  But  we  are  too  poor — could  n’t  afford 
$3.50  apiece  for  them.  Rather  discouraging.  Saw 
the  remnant  of  Fire  Zouaves  come  home — a sad  sight. 
Not  only  browned  and  worn,  they  looked  not  happy, 
not  bright,  not  good.  They  feel  the  contrast,  no 
doubt,  between  this  and  their  going  off,  eleven  hun- 


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Susan  Warner 


dred  strong.  Poor  things,  my  heart  warms  toward 
them. 

“Aug.  15.  The  Zouaves  went  through  my  head 
and  heart  at  night — I was  too  excited  for  sleep  for 
some  time.  But  sleep  came — and  the  early  waking — 
day  finest  could  be — coffee  and  beefsteak,  and  off. 
Cars  started  at  eight.  At  Bridgeport  changed  cars 
for  the  Housatonic  railway — one  passenger  car.  We 
had  a beautiful  journey,  through  a beautiful  New 
England  country;  but  how  strange  it  was!  Virginia 
and  the  work  doing  there,  and  the  feeling  of  the  strug- 
gle for  existence,  made  the  landscape  overhung. 
Meantime  a man  in  the  car  carried  on  a great  business 
in  newspapers;  amusing  to  watch  him;  doubling  up 
and  counting  out  and  delivering  quantities  at  every 
stopping  place.” 

I am  not  sure  if  it  was  this  man,  or  another,  who 
had  in  hand  the  irregular  paper  business;  not  at  sta- 
tions, but  along  the  road,  as  the  train  flew  by  among 
the  scattered  farm  houses.  Looking  a little  ahead, 
you  could  see  some  child  or  woman  dart  out  of  the 
brown  doorway  and  speed  down  to  the  railway  fence — 
the  man  twisted  up  a paper,  flung  it  writh  good  aim; 
it  was  caught  up,  and  hurried  away  into  the  house, 
bearing — ah,  who  could  tell  what  tidings! — for  the 
dwellers  there?  “My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain”  with 
the  mere  remembering  it.  And  everywhere  were 
flags:  on  the  houses,  on  flag-staffs,  on  the  gate-posts 
on  the  bams;  floating  out  upon  the  north  wind 
with  their  silent  protest  and  promise. 

We  were  going  to  Lenox.  To  the  small  neigh- 
bouring town  of  Lee,  the  Bull  Run  tidings  came  at 
nightfall. 

“It  was  an  awful  night,”  the  butcher  reported 


Writing,  Writing  423 

afterwards,  in  forceful  vernacular:  “Nobody  couldn’t 
eat  nothin’,  and  nobody  could  n’t  sleep  none.’’  But 
thoughts  were  strong.  Lee  had  already  sent  its  full 
quota,  in  answer  to  the  President’s  call.  But  when 
the  morning  broke  over  the  little  town  in  its  broad 
green  valley,  sixty  new  volunteers  took  the  “Owl 
train,”  and  went  down  to  the  front.  And  the  women 
got  them  ready. 

11  Aug.  16.  ‘We’ll  have  many  happy  hours  here, 
please  God!’  dear  Miss  Haines  said  last  night.  She 
sent  us  out  this  morning  without  her,  she  is  too  weak, 
to  go  to  Stockbridge.  Oh  what  a ride!  what  air! 
what  lakes  and  hills!  what  Canaan  reminiscences! 
Called  to  see  Mrs.  C.  Field  and  Grade.  Home  to 
two  o’clock  dinner — and  after  we  sat  on  piazza  and 
read  Russell’s  letter,  and  sewed  and  talked.  Mrs. 
Goodman  here  morning,  and  Mrs.  Rackerman  morn- 
ing and  evening — and  Mrs.  Charles  Sedgwick  at  dinner 
time.  It  is  lovely  out  of  doors  and  in;  and  Miss  H. 
seems  much  better.  It  is  all  so  good  to  us!  The 
blessing  of  God,  may  it  be  upon  it  all,  and  us 
all!” 

11  October  17  {at  home).  Such  a day!  The  wind 
which  had  dried  up  everything,  quieted  down  and 
October  came  out  in  some  of  its  fairest.  At  seven 
and  a half  a.m.  the  boat  and  Father  were  to  be  at 
Cozzens’  dock — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adams  came — rested — 
then  we  all  but  Aunty  set  off.  Fair  sail  round  to 
De  R ham’s  dock — a good  deal  of  shoving  to  get  the 
boat  to  land — then  the  walk — then  the  old  place  and 
Falls  again.  And  I stood  and  thanked  God  for  all 
his  mercy  to  us  since  I saw  those  Falls  last!  So 
unchangingly  fair  had  been  the  course  of  his  provi- 
dence to  us,  through  all  the  hourly  variations  of 


424 


Susan  Warner 


every  day!  It  is  a lesson  for  the  future.  And  I 
promised  to  be  all  God’s.  The  Lord  keep  me  so! 
Then  came,  after  our  friend’s  great  delight  in  the 
place,  and  some  examination  of  it — (Mr.  A.  exclaimed 
as  we  came  up  ‘This  is  rest!’)  our  lunch.  A.  had 
made  turnovers  and  gingerbread;  I had  made  sand- 
wiches. How  good  they  were!  and  how  relished. 
And  then  we  sat  and  strolled  and  sat  still  again,  to 
listen  to  nature  and  watch  and  take  the  good  that 
was  before  us.  Sweet  and  fair,  good  and  rich  in 
enjoyment  was  that  time  and  the  whole  day.  Pleasant 
walk  home — lovely  light  and  shadows  on  the  moun- 
tains— leaves  changing — which  had  given  a sunny  hue 
down  at  the  Falls.  So  still  and  mild  we  had  stayed 
two  or  three  hours  there.  Rest  at  home — then  early 
tea-dinner — plenty  of  talk  about  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  happy  coloured  Methodist  people — prayer — 
and  they  went  away  home.  I thought  yesterday 
maybe  the  Lord  would  give  them  and  us  such  a day 
for  this  work  as  today  has  been. 

11  Nov.  8.  One  of  those  days  that  one  looks  after 
with  a little  sigh,  when  they  are  gone.  Wind  lulled. 
I sent  to  the  Adamses — he  came  and  spent  the  day. 
We  took  Miss  Garrettson  to  Fort  Con,  and  Lookout 
Rock — going  gently,  and  resting,  and  talking,  and 
looking  and  enjoying  each  other  generally.  Then  a 
somewhat  late  dinner — Anna’s  nice  chicken  and  pies 
and  chocolate  cream, — and  the  good  company.  After 
dinner  round  the  fire  and  talk  till  Mr.  Adams  went 
away  in  the  edge  of  the  day — and  we  talked  more 
round  the  fire.  Anna’s  French  and  brown  bread  at 
tea  delicious — after  tea  views  and  talk. 

“ Sunday , Nov.  io,  ’ 61 . A very  good  and  sweet 
day.  Spent  at  home  because  it  was  too  cold  to  go 


425 


Writing,  Writing 

to  church.  Spent  with  the  reading  of  the  ‘Higher 
Christian  Life’  in  the  morning — and  with  Bible  read- 
ing and  study  and  Annetta’s  lesson  and  singing  and 
writing  hymns  in  the  afternoon  and  evening.  A sweet 
day — unbroken  in  its  rest  and  peacefulness  and  liberty 
of  Sabbath  occupation — a fenced-in  day,  very  pre- 
cious. Also  Bible  truths  were  precious  to  me,  and 
realised  to  be  so.” 

“Through  all  the  poverty  of  earthly  means,”  she 
writes  another  day,  “I  feel  so  rich  in  the  Lord’s 
promises,  and  in  the  Lord.” 

Then  again,  after  giving  a Bible  lesson  to  her  one 
little  scholar,  and  a sort  of  “pastoral”  visit  to  the 
mother  she  says: 

“It  is  trying  to  cultivate  the  little  field  given  me. 
How  I would  like  to  have  a meeting  with  several,  and 
a Bible  reading — but  perhaps  I am  not  fitted  for  that, 
and  the  words  I read  this  afternoon  struck  me — “not 
to  think  of  himself  more  highly  than  he  ought  to  think, 
but  to  think  soberly,  etc.” 

“Dec.  22.  One  of  our  very  sweet  and  precious 
Sundays.  Not  too  tired.  Read  and  studied  the 
1 1 8th  Psalm — part  of  it  rather — then  rested  my  head 
a little,  and  A.  and  I took  a cup  of  broth. — Then 
after  a while  Annetta  came  and  we  had  a nice  lesson. 
Could  n’t  go  to  see  her  mother — somebody  was  there. 
I think,  if  I may,  to  get  Mrs.  Miller  to  have  a Bible 
reading  with  me  every  Sunday — I don’t  know  whether 
she  will — and  then,  if  I can,  perhaps  to  draw  in  some 
other  or  others.  If  the  way  opens  for  it — perhaps  this 
is  not  the  way  I am  to  work.  The  Bible  afterwards — 
hardly  feel  sometimes  like  exchanging  the  Bible  for 
anything  less  good.  A good  day. 

“ Tuesday , Dec.  24.  Christmas  eve — and  I sat 


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baking  my  bread  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  edge  of  the 
evening,  the  wild  winter  wind  outside  and  kitty  lapping 
her  milk  at  my  side. 

“The  kitchen  not  nice  exactly,  for  the  stove  has 
been  changing  place  today — and  baskets  of  wood  and 
kindling,  and  multifarious  items  of  kitchen  use  were 
about  in  sight,  and  not  stroked  into  order — attesting 
that  our  life  just  now  is  with  realities.  But  I was 
thinking  it  a good  Christmas  eve — the  best  yet  I ever 
had.  No  one  before  ever  found  me  feeling  so  rich — 
with  riches  that  the  Lord  has  given  me  lately.  Riches 
of  trust  and  gladness,  and  hope  in  him — and  rest  from 
my  enemies — all  in  him.  I never  felt  less  in  myself — 
but  I see  that  I have  all  things  in  Christ.” 

As  I have  said,  it  was  very,  very  hard  to  get  effi- 
cient helpers  of  any  kind,  in  the  country,  in  those 
war  times.  Prices  of  everything  (except  authors’ 
work!)  went  up  and  up,  and  we  were  straitened 
enough.  And  yet  to  her,  you  see,  it  was  daily  the 
“more  and  more”  of  Prov.  4:18.  Another  day  she 
says: 

“A.  and  I went  out  in  the  snow  and  brought  in 
pine  kindling.  Beautiful  light  and  snow  and  rocks 
and  trees,  delicious  air,  and  good  exercise,  and  wet 
cold  feet  and  ankles — the  first  cold,  the  latter  wet. 
That  ’s  a drawback,  yes  ma’am,  it  is.  Also  the 
elaborate  dressing  to  go  out. 

“ Dec.  31.  So  ends  the  year.  It  has  been  a good 
one,  a happy  one,  a quiet  one — with  little  roughness 
even  in  it,  and  many,  very  many,  and  great  enjoy- 
ments and  advantages.  Who  can  number  them? 
Today  has  been  busy  work  again,  at  Aunty’s  wrap- 
per and  at  last  Anna’s  Garibaldi.  But  that  is  not  near 
ready  for  presenting — we  see  no  good  way  but  to 


Writing,  Writing  4 2 7 

work  a while  tomorrow  morning — if  all  is  well.  Thank 
the  Lord  for  this  year — how  good  it  has  been!  And 
the  problem  at  which  I have  worked  for  twenty  years 
is,  I believe,  solved  at  last.  I have  been  taught  the 
secret,  and  I am  wholly  the  Lord’s.  The  Lord 
keep  me.  And  he  will.  And  his  name  shall  be 
praised.” 

I must  needs  comment  a little  cautiously  here, 
but  I think  she  meant  this.  She  had  long  trusted 
in  Christ  for  salvation,  she  had  believed  that  he  would 
surely  “perfect  that  which  concerned  her.”  But  now 
she  knew,  that  minute  by  minute  she  might  have  the 
victory;  that  minute  by  minute  the  Lord  would 
bear  her  through,  unspotted,  if  she  trusted  him  to 
do  it.  “Thanks  be  to  God,  which  causeth  us 
always  to  triumph  in  Christ,” — that  was  on  her 
banner  now.  Perhaps  one  instance  will  shew  what  I 
mean. 

We  had,  one  year,  two  unruly  guests,  whom  a 
train  of  circumstances  had  brought  into  the  house 
for  a prolonged  stay.  And,  while  they  were  there, 
they  must  of  course  be  civilly  treated.  But  they 
made  my  sister  nearly  wild;  all  her  keen  perceptions 
of  right,  justice,  and  propriety  being  utterly  outraged 
and  under  foot. 

One  morning  the  two  had  been  especially  trying, 
insolent  to  a degree.  My  sister  went  off  upstairs 
in  a sort  of  boiling-over  state.  Talking,  thinking, 
reasoning  with  herself,  did  not  one  bit  of  good ; rather, 
she  grew  hotter.  And  not  one  bit  of  cooling  down 
had  come,  wrhen  suddenly  she  was  called  to  dinner. 
She  must  go,  must  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
shew  and  offer  all  the  little  courtesies  which  to  a 
guest  are  due.  She  must  be  the  calm,  dignified, 


428 


Susan  Warner 


Christian,  lady  of  the  house.  And  there  was  no 
time  to  scold  herself  into  order;  nor  for  a prayer 
much  longer  than  Nehemiah’s;  she  must  go,  at  once. 
What  could  she  do?  Just  one  thing,  as  she  told  us 
long  afterwards.  The  Lord  had  promised  to  help  his 
children  always,  in  every  case.  Upon  that  w'ord  she 
threw  herself  now;  laying  before  the  Lord  the  temper 
and  indignation,  the  sharp  speech,  the  hot  feeling. 
“Help — for  thou  hast  promised!”  was  all  she  could 
say. 

So  she  went  down  to  dinner,  w'ith  that  cry  in  her 
heart.  And  if  ever  you  could  personify  a fair,  calm 
May  morning,  such  was  my  sister  in  her  place  that 
day.  You  would  hardly  have  guessed  that  winds 
could  blow.  I know,  for  I saw  it. 

“I  have  laid  help  upon  one  that  is  mighty.” 

“Jan.  j,  1862.  ‘The  Lord  is  my  portion,  saith 
my  soul,  therefore  hope  thou  in  him.*  This  is  my 
motto — for  the  year  beginning.” 

It  opened  rather  roughly,  according  to  human 
ideas;  with  the  absorbing  war-storm  in  the  land, 
and  just  with  us  great  pressure.  We  were  at  the 
Island. 

“Jan.  2.  Coming  home  tonight  from  our  wood- 
work, A.  and  I, — we  went  out  too  late  to  gather 
brush.  It  was  a wild  wind,  cold,  sun  gone  down, 
Father  coming  from  the  barnyard  with  the  milk  and 
the  pail  for  watering  the  cattle — it  seemed  a little 
bit  sorrowful,  or  drear,  to  me.  It  looked  as  if  we 
were  poor!  But  that  feeling  went  away  in  prayer. 
We  are  not  poor,  after  all — and  do  not  feel  lonely. 
Nevertheless,  it  would  be  proper,  we  agree,  to  get 
a man  from  Miller  to  see  to  the  cattle  once  a day  at 
least.  It  is  too  much  for  Father.  We  tried  to  begin 


Writing,  Writing  429 

work  today,  but  I did  little  more  than  get  in  the 
traces.  Between  my  ‘Daisy,’  the  magazine  project, 
and  the  S.  S.  books,  which  Mr.  Wise  wants  for  the 
Methodist  Concern,  and  my  Bible  Lessons,  I have 
somewhat  of  an  embarrassment  of  work.” 

The  “magazine”  was  only  a child’s  paper  we  had 
planned,  and  of  which  on  January  6,  she  says  she 
“drew  up  the  prospectus.”  But  it  was  a great  prob- 
lem how  to  keep  at  least  some  writing  hours  free 
from  intrusions.  There  was  so  much  to  do,  and  it 
must  not  all  be  left  on  Aunt  Fanny’s  hands.  We 
tried  the  French  early  cup  of  coffee  or  tea,  and  eleven 
o’clock  breakfast;  which  did  well  enough  for  us,  but 
was  dreary  and  uncomfortable  for  the  other  two  dear 
ones;  while  the  ordinary  breakfast,  with  one  o’clock 
dinner,  and  all  the  preparations  first  and  dishes  after, 
seemed  to  cut  the  whole  morning  into  bits,  and  leave 
us  tired  and  dull. 

“ This  won’t  do.  So  now  we  propose  to  try  bread 
and  butter  and  tea  breakfast  at  seven,  and  then  put 
away  things  and  write.” 

I may  say  here  that  this  plan  worked  splendidly, 
and  for  many  years.  Only  we  had  to  modify  a little, 
and  take  an  earlier  start,  as  more  and  more  of  the 
business  of  the  place  came  into  our  hands — and  on 
them. 

“Jan.  8.  Oh  busy  day!  and  oh  tired  body!  Tea 
and  bread  and  butter  at  seven  or  near,  write  till 
somewhere  towards  eleven.  Second  breakfast,  coffee 
and  beefsteak  and  5 wow-bread — the  most  delicious 
thing.  Then  I wash  dishes  of  last  night,  morning, 
and  meal  just  over — having  made  bread  first.  Then 
A.  and  I go  out  and  sweep  a path  in  the  snow  through 
the  old  cow  field  to  the  entrance  of  pine  wood — and 


43° 


Susan  Warner 


break  up  kindling.  Lovely!  almost  beyond  June. 
The  smooth,  even,  deep  spread  of  dry  snow — the 
cedars  and  pines  rising  clear  and  green  out  of  it  and 
raising  their  heads  toward  the  clear  blue  sky.  Cold, 
but  not  seeming  so.  Then  home — my  hour — supper — 
and  a tired  mind  and  body,  as  I said.  But  happy 
in  the  Lord,  and  greatly  desiring  more  knowledge  of 
him. 

“Jan,  p.  Busy — but  how  sweet  our  days  are! 
How  willingly  I miss  the  New  York  confusions  and 
bustle  and  engagements.  Today  a slight  rain  in 
morning — clearing  off  to  beautiful,  mild,  sunny  blue 
sky;  melting  under  foot.  Bread  and  butter  break- 
fast— write  till  too  tired  to  write  more — stir  round 
and  set  table  and  dust  and  make  my  bed — dinner, 
or  second  breakfast — lose  time  then,  with  the  dogs 
and  one  thing  and  another,  being  tired;  at  last  get 
my  dishes  done  and  look  at  a paper.  Go  out  with 
A.  and  cut  kindling  in  the  grape  house.  Too  tired 
for  much  exertion.  And  there  is  the  day!  My  hour, 
and  tea,  and  here  I am.  Every  day  seems  pleasant 
and  every  sort  of  weather,  up  here  in  the  pale  wil- 
derness. But  the  days  are  short!  Hard  to  get  much 
done. 

“Jan.  io,  1862.  O how  sweet  the  days  are!  But 
I was  a little  bit  overdone,  and  felt  not  so  work- 
worthy this  morning.  Wrote  nevertheless  a good 
portion;  and  after  second  breakfast  and  a while  of 
rest,  felt  better.  Got  my  dishes  and  things  done, 
and  then  rested  and  read.  It  was  what  I needed. 
Anna  went  out  to  the  kitchen  and  made  crackers. 
I read  ‘Typical  Forms,’  and  ‘Hugh  Fisher’ — a dear 
little  S.  S.  book.  Wrote  last  night  to  Mr.  Putnam 
and  sent  it  today  with  prospectus  of  our  paper.  This 


Writing,  Writing  431 

is  the  first  one  sent.  Maybe  it  will  all  come  to 
nothing. 

“I  was  so  glad  to  have  a day  of  rest,”  she  says, 
the  next  Sunday — “I  had  looked  forward  to  it — and 
its  hours  rolled  away  on  such  smooth  wheels  after 
all,  and  were  so  soon  gone.”  And  yet  it  was  “a  stormy 
day,  cold  rain  upon  the  snow.”  And  she  “read  little 
but  the  Bible.” 

11  Jan.  13.  Work  as  usual;  and  pleasant  and  sweet 
is  work,  if  the  eye  of  the  heart  be  unto  God  all  along. 
How  gently  he  has  guided  us  this  winter,  this  winter 
that  I dreaded!  how  pleasant,  and  enjoyed,  and 
guarded,  and  supplied,  our  way  has  been;  how  bright 
with  the  love  of  him.  So  far,  how  sweet  and  good 
it  has  been ; and  we  can  trust  him  for  the  rest.  Today, 
breakfast  half  past  six,  get  to  writing  by  eight;  second 
breakfast  as  usual — dishes,  etc.,  etc.,  go  out  with  A. 
after  kindling.  Very  cold  and  disagreeable  to  be  in 
the  wind ; we  came  into  the  greenhouse  (only  a quarter 
covered  in  with  sash,  but  the  walls  are  there),  and 
chopped  and  broke  a quantity  of  kindling. 

“Jan.  14.  Wrote  till  about  eleven — but  bread, 
etc.,  hindered  my  beginning  till  near  nine.  Got  my 
task  done.  Dinner,  making  up  and  baking  my  Indian 
bread,  dishes,  etc.,  kept  me  till  time  to  go  out,  and 
we  did  n’t  get  in  till  near  four.  So  goes  the  day,  these 
short  days.  The  ferry-man  not  having  been  near  us 
all  day,  we  have  not  got  Miss  Haines’  valise.  We 
can  wait — life  is  so  busy  and  so  sweet  with  all  its 
business,  by  the  blessing  of  God.  O how  sweet  to 
me  are  the  words  of  the  Bible  now!  how  delightsome. 
We  are  all  so  tired  tonight  that  we  forego  work,  and 
have  not  even  lit  the  lamp. 

“Jan.  13.  Breakfast  at  half  past  six,  or  there- 


432 


Susan  Warner 


abouts — got  to  writing  at  eight.  Wrote  a large  task, 
with  less  fatigue  than  yesterday — but  two  hours  is 
as  much  as  I can  stand  without  feeling  it.  Was  done 
before  eleven.  Got  a little  time  to  rest  between 
dishes  and  going  out.  It  was  glorious  out!  A.  and 
I plunged  through  the  unbroken  snow  to  the  Home 
Fort;  going  down  through  the  crust  sometimes  seven 
or  eight  inches.  Brush  too  covered  up  to  work  there. 
The  icy  storm  of  yesterday  has  slightly  dimpled  the 
surface  of  the  snow,  making  exquisite  shadows,  and 
left  over  all  the  surface  a sparkling  ice  frost — beau- 
tiful to  behold.  The  sunbeams  streaming  over  this 
make  a path  of  gold  and  diamond  dust.  We  went 
to  Cedar  Grove  and  sawed  and  chopped  cedar  branches 
for  the  stove,  and  dragged  them  home. 

11  Jan.  20.  Mr.  Putnam  sent  me  up  a batch  of 
beautifully  printed  circulars  for  our  paper!  with  his 
estimates.  I don’t  know  if  it  will  go  on.  I shall  try 
to  do  my  part;  then  as  the  Lord  will. 

“ Jan.  22.  Cloudy  still,  though  not  storming. 
Wrote  as  usual — got  done  ‘The  French  Cap’ — and 
began  the  next  story  on  ‘the  meek.’  Then  while  I 
was  about  setting  the  table,  came  the  valise.”  (Bring- 
ing belated  Christmas  tokens,  and  also  some  work  we 
had  undertaken,  in  the  way  of  correcting  compo- 
sitions.) “We  had  second  breakfast — and  A.  and  I 
and  Aunty  were  at  the  unpacking.  It  was  nice,  nice ; 
we  did  not  get  out  at  all;  but  sat  over  papers  and 
magazines  and  illustrations,  till  four  o’clock.  That 
is,  after  I had  done  my  dishes,  and  seasoned  the  thirty 
pounds  of  sausage  meat,  and  A.  had  prepared  her  pig’s 
head  for  brawn,  which  had  been  boiling.  Dear  Miss 
H.  has  given  us  a good  time  today.” 

Next  day : “Out  in  cedar  grove  with  A.  sawing 


Writing,  Writing  433 

dry  branches.  Crust  hardly  bearing  us,  sometimes — 
and  then  we  would  go  through  inches  deep.  The 
tree  sprays  cased  in  ice,  then  bearing  a light  burden 
of  snow  from  the  last  three-inch  fall — most  beautiful ; 
and  stirring,  the  clink  was  most  delicious  and  silvery. 
Snow  thick  on  the  ground. 

“Jan.  24.  Very  like  snow,  but  not  snowing  yet. 
Before  the  sun  got  up,  the  old  moon  looked  through 
a thickening  veil  of  what  seemed  snow  clouds.  Wrote 
my  quota — busy  with  arranging  Father’s  errands  to 
Cold  Spring — do  my  dishes — and  out  to  greenhouse. 
Found  the  bucksaw  was  delightful  exercise;  so  we 
cut  up  and  brought  in  a quantity  ®f  dry  wood  for 
the  kitchen  stove.  Out  late — then  had  a boiled  egg 
for  tea.  How  pleasant  the  days  are!  how  lovely  the 
winter!  howT  good  our  God!  Father  enjoys  himself 
uncommonly  well,  seemingly;  and  great  peace  is  in 
our  household.  Letter  from  Mrs.  Prentiss  yesterday, 
delighted  with  our  paper  scheme — from  P.  Carter 
discouraging  it  hard.  Well — the  Lord  will  arrange 
it.  ‘He  shall  direct  thy  paths’ — what  a blessed 
promise  that  is.  It  should  lay  forever  the  spirit  of 
unrest  and  fear.” 

Again,  detailing  the  press  of  rather  humdrum  busi- 
ness, she  adds:  “But  it’s  work,  and  it’s  duty,  and 
it ’s  good.” 

Another  day : “We  went  out  to  chop  and  saw 

kindling.  Perfectly  nectareous;  not  very  cold,  but 
oh  very  white  and  brilliant,  and  the  golden  touches 
of  the  sunbeams  to  the  snow,  falling  through  tree- 
tops  on  the  smooth  bright  surface,  were  more  heavenly 
than  earthly.  Morally,  they  belonged  wholly  to  the 
unearthly.  The  snow  has  been  settled  and  packed 
by  the  hail  and  rain  storm  till  it  is  like  the  frosting 


28 


434 


Susan  Warner 


of  cake;  it  will  bear  perfectly;  and  tho’  with  a sort 
of  glace  surface,  it  is  not  slippery.  The  rain,  etc., 
has  indented  it. 

“ Jan.  ji.  Bitter.  Got  my  writing  done  nicely, 
resting  in  my  rocking-chair.  But  I am  not  as  strong 

as  once  I was.  Letter  from  Mrs. (an  English 

correspondent),  filled  with  politics,  and  accompanied 
with  a quantity  of  ‘Times’  extracts — not  compli- 
mentary to  America;  and  she  falls  foul  of  Mr.  Seward. 
I felt  almost  like  having  a cry  when  I got  through — 
inasmuch  as  a great  handful  of  reproach  and  mis- 
understanding thrown  in  your  face,  is  disagreeable 
if  you  cannot  immediately  throw  it  off.  And  I can’t 

write  to  Mrs.  just  yet,  and  I can’t  set  her 

wholly  right  when  I do.” 

However,  the  day  ends  gleefully,  with  “a  splendid 
time  foraging.”  “Snow  in  some  places  under  the 
trees  deep  and  slippery.  We  even  got  on  our  hands 
and  knees  to  climb  up  some  ascents  in  the  pine  grove. 
How  lovely!  We  sawed  off  great  pine  branches.” 

Athletics  that  will  compare  very  favourably  with 
tennis  at  96°. 

About  the  English  letter. — It  is  hard  for  people  to 
believe  now,  what  some  of  us  well  remember  then; 
the  hurt  feeling  over  such  letters  and  papers.  As  if 
a trusted  friend  had  failed  us,  in  our  sorest  need. 
When  the  London  Times  threw  mud  rather  pro- 
miscuously ; and  Mr.  Gladstone  wrote  that  the 
Government  could  not  possibly  succeed;  and  private 
correspondents  sent  such  words  as  these:  “We  always 
knew  that  Republics  had  in  themselves  the  seeds  of 
decay.”  How  could  we  be  quite  patient? — the  pain 
of  such  things  was  beyond  telling.  For  the  Nation 
was  on  trial  for  her  life!  and  there  was  enough  at 


Writing,  Writing  435 

home  to  make  our  hearts  ache.  One  day  my  sister 
wrote  (away  on  a visit) : — 

“Worried  because  the  papers  attack  the  admin- 
istration so,  and  others  in  the  house  are  dissatisfied; 
and  I myself  would  like  to  see  a little  more  of  the 
Jackson  spirit  at  work.  But  Anna  says,  ‘trust  Mr. 
Lincoln’ — and  no  doubt  he  don’t  tell  all  he  thinks. 

“Feb.  ij.  Read,  last  night  and  today,  A’s  story 
on  the  ‘persecuted’  (‘The  Prince  in  Disguise’).  Very 
interesting  indeed ; I like  it  much.  Surely  there  has 
been  a blessing  on  these  S.  S.  stories ; they  have  run  so 
pleasantly  and  through  such  sweet  and  blessed  truth. 
If  I were  only  stronger  and  able  to  work  faster. 

“j Feb.  18.  Have  worked  pretty  well  today,  but 
lost  too  much  time  over  ‘My  Brother’s  Keeper’ — 
resting  is  very  well,  but  one  may  get  too  much  engaged 
and  rest  too  long  at  once. 

“Feb.  21.  A pleasant  day  of  work.  Copied,  as 
usual — dishes — copying  after  breakfast,  and  views, 
etc.  And  then  sawing  wood  in  the  grape  house. 
Cooler,  and  very  pleasant.  And  that  is  the  day! 
only  views  are  very  fine  and  precious;  and  my  read- 
ing, by  day  and  in  the  evening,  is  precious  too;  the 
‘Book  and  its  Story,’  and  Macaulay’s  England  at 
night,  writh  Mme.  d’Arblay  if  I get  too  tired  for 
something  stronger.  And  the  Bible  is  sweet — and 
my  hope  in  Jesus  is  sweet  beyond  former  time — and 
oh  it  might  be  so  much  more!  My  hope;  I might 
say,  my  present  joy,  more  truly  or  more  exactly.” 

We  were  working  quite  too  hard.  Partly  for  the 
needs  be,  partly  because  the  work  was  so  sweet;  and 
also  because  at  the  ice-bound  season  interruptions 
from  without  were  few.  Besides  our  regular  work, 
we  took  in  other  writing  and  head-work;  something 


43  6 


Susan  Warner 


that  answered  to  what  the  masons  call  “ chinking.  ” 
It  makes  the  wall  strong,  I suppose,  but  just  sapped 
our  strength.  Never  again,  after  that  winter,  could 
we  ever  dare  attempt  such  long,  steady  hours  of 
pen-work.  It  shewed  less  in  the  cold  weather;  but 
when  the  letting-down  spring  days  came,  then  we 
knew  our  mistake. 

“Feb.  22.  Pretty  well  tired  tonight.  Indeed  for 
two  or  three  weeks  past  we  have  plainly  flagged, — 
not  so  much  in  our  writing  work,  that  gets  done — 
as  in  the  energy  and  force  and  appetite  of  spirit 
and  body  respectively.  Indeed  it  is  mainly  the  body 
that  is  failing,  I suppose;  though  the  spirit  feels  it 
too  then;  and  ‘whiles’  I have  a tired  spirit  as  well 
as  body, — pleasant  as  all  things  in  general  are.  It 
is  the  constant  driving — or  the  changeless  routine — 
or  the  real  failure  of  strength  as  the  season  draws 
towards  spring.  We  need  all  diversion  we  can 
get.  And  then, — I need  to  ‘set  the  Lord  always 
before  me.’  All  is  swTeet,  that  is  done  consciously 
to  him.  Settled  Miller’s  business.  Such  things  are 
opportunities — every  one  of  them;  occasions  to  ad- 
vance in  graces — of  gentleness,  goodness,  faith,  meek- 
ness, long-suffering.  That  promise  of  ‘all  things 
working  together  ’ is  no  doubt  true. 

“Feb.  26.  As  usual.  We  got  ‘The  Little  Black 
Hen’  copied  too  today — that  is  finished.  No,  I am 
wrong,  almost  finished.  Pretty  tired  tonight;  we 
have  felt  rather  too  pressed  with  business,  but  get- 
ting off  two  of  the  books  to  Dr.  Wise  will  be  a great 
relief.  Then  we  may  take  the  rest  of  the  copying 
more  gently.  We  went  out  and  sawed  and  chopped 
pine  branches  in  the  greenhouse.  Pleasant.  I read 
Macaulay’s  ‘England’  at  evening  with  very  great 


Writing,  Writing  437 

pleasure;  and  sometimes  in  the  day  read  and  learn 
or  begin  to  learn  a verse  or  two  of  John’s  Gospel  in 
the  German. 

“ March  i.  Feel  rather  better.  My  little  ‘peace- 
maker’s’ story  is  very  sweet  to  me;  and  these  two 
mornings  I have  written  in  an  absorbed  kind  of  way. 
It  is  very  pleasant  to  write  so;  but  it  leaves  me  tired, 
those  two  hours  of  morning  work.  At  ten  or  a little 
after,  I stop  and  wash  up  all  my  dishes  from  the 
evening  before — while  Anna  gets  the  breakfast.  We 
went  out  this  afternoon.  Cool  and  fine  and  beau- 
tiful, and  still  somewhat  springy.  We  sawed  branches 
in  the  pine  wood,  and  cut  them  up  in  the  grape  house. 
I have  a little  bit  of  expectation  that  the  paper  will 
go — I don’t  know,  of  course.  O for  the  Lord’s  bless- 
ing on  all  our  wTork, — and  O what  thanks  are  due 
to  him  for  all  the  goodness  that  has  followed  and 
kept  us  this  winter!  ‘The  prettiest  winter  I remember,’ 
as  A.  said. 

‘ ‘ March  3.  Head  ached  or  was  achy  in  the  night — 
but  grew  better  before  morning.  We  made  a change 
today,  seeing  that  we  have  run  down  of  late — and 
went  out  for  our  exercise  at  the  hour  when  we  used 
to  write,  coming  in  about  ten  o’clock.  It  was  very 
pleasant.  We  foraged  in  the  cedar  grove — went  in 
the  pine  wood  and  marked  trees  for  Edwin  to  cut — 
home  with  a good  preparation  for  the  day.  Meals 
as  usual — wrote  from  two  till  seven,  or  thereabouts, 
wrote  five  pages.  So  it  went  very  well.  Courtlandt 
Gilbert  brought  a man  who  wants  the  place.  Looks 
well.  Can  we  pay  $20  a month? — and  can  we  do 
less? 

“ March  5.  Full  of  pleasant  work.  Foraging  this 
morning — air  mild,  springy,  pleasant,  and  the  icy 


43  8 


Susan  Warner 


top  of  the  snow  in  the  woods  and  on  the  rocks  giving 
a beautiful  glint  of  the  light  when  the  sun  came  out. 
Home,  wash  my  dishes — second  breakfast — views — 
sleep — writing — that  brings  it  to  four  o’clock.  Then 
I have  my  hour,  and  A.  gets  supper.  But  we  don’t 
eat  porridge  much  now;  we  have  all  grown  delicate, 
except  Father.  I wish  I had  more  strength  to  write — 
but  I have  what  I ought  to  have.  If  I only  have 
the  presence  of  Jesus — that  is  all  I wTant.  I have 
not  had  it  so  much  lately.  But  with  his  promise  I 
may,  and  I trust  I will. 

“ March  7.  Came  President  Lincoln’s  Emancipa- 
tion Message.  Could  I be  glad  and  thankful  enough? 
When  has  anything  so  good  been  heard!  So  well 
done  too, — so  like  himself — wise,  moderate,  sensible, 
firm.  This  was  good  news  enough  for  one  day.  Work 
as  usual.  Anna  has  not  been  hindered,  I think,  from 
writing,  one  single  day  by  illness  since  we  began  the 
new  system  of  meals.  How  notable,  and  how  blessed 
a thing.” 

I should  say,  perhaps,  that  as  my  father  had  grown 
older,  and  cares  became  a burden,  we  had  taken  upon 
our  own  hands  all  the  business  matters  of  the  place, 
leaving  him  to  give  counsel  when  he  chose,  but  to 
have  no  sort  of  care. 

II  March  31.  It  was  a rainy  day.  Nevertheless, 
upon  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  or  so,  came  a bearded 
wagoner  past  our  windows,  and  it  was  the  father 
of  Ellis,  our  new  man,  with  one  of  his  wagons  of  goods 
and  moveables.  Ellis  and  his  wife  and  their  chattels 
were  established  here  before  night.  And  here  ends 
the  long  and  sweet  time  of  our  being  alone — when 
God  took  care  of  us,  and  we  were  alone  from  all  other 
help.  It  has  been  a sweet  time!  a happy  time,  a 


Henry  W.  Warner 

From  a Photograph  by  F.  Forshew 


Writing,  Writing  439 

fearless  time.  I have  slept  quietly,  and  trusted  in 
the  Lord.” 

A man’s  strength  at  hand  in  the  spring  time,  of 
course  in  a measure  relieved  ours;  and  yet  brought 
in  a new  care.  We  had  assumed  the  business  care 
of  the  place,  to  relieve  my  father, — then  found  it 
was  hard  for  him  to  give  it  up.  And  to  lead — and 
yet  where  it  was  possible  to  follow — was  our  new 
lesson.  A very  hard  one  for  my  sister. 

“ April  14.  Very  weary,  weary  in  mind  and  body. 
I giving  orders  to  Ellis  about  the  walks — then  Father 
giving  other  orders — and  I countermanding  or  object- 
ing, and  then  Father  very  displeased  or  disturbed. 
I am  very  wrong — I must  be — I consider  my  own 
pleasure.  I am  weary  with  the  friction  and  trouble, 
together  with  the  pressure  of  work  and  the  fatigue 
of  body,  and  the  progress  of  affairs,  and  Aunty,  and 
Anna.  Aunty  exceedingly  tired,  and  not  caring  for 
herself;  and  Anna  feeble,  and  worried  for  her  and  by 
everybody  in  turn.  I will  turn  to  my  stronghold. 
I shall  get  grace  there  to  overcome  even  myself.” 

We  did  a good  deal  of  gardening  that  summer, 
both  directing  and  taking  hold.  The  glimpses  are 
often  characteristic  and  pretty. 

“ April  17.  Working  before  breakfast  again,  and 
began  sodding  the  old  walk.  I am  glad  to  sod  it  up. 
I like  to  have  the  line  changed — besides  the  improve- 
ment in  beauty.  I like  the  change. 

11  April  18 . Beautiful  sodding  before  breakfast. 
The  gun  fires  at  five;  then  we  hear  the  sweet  sound 
of  the  West  Point  clock  striking  six — seven — then  if 
we  stay  long  enough,  we  hear  the  drum  after  the 
oadets  have  done  their  breakfast,  and  the  soft  wind 
instruments  at  guard  mounting. 


440 


Susan  Warner 


“Mrs.  Prentiss  has  written  me  with  seven  names 
of  subscribers.  She  hoped  for  many  more — and  so 
did  I.  Nevertheless,  I desire  that  the  Lord’s  hand 
may  guide  us  wholly,  in  this  as  in  everything.” 

Another  day : “Letter  from  Mr.  Hasbrook — has 

three  more  names  for  the  paper,  and  thinks  more  will 
be  much  more  easily  got  when  once  the  paper  is 
a-going.  Felt  bright  about  it,  and  rather  think  it 
will  go.” 

Next  day : “We  have  but  three  hundred  names 
and  we  ought  to  have  five  hundred.  I feel  disap- 
pointed and  a little  downcast — yet  it  is  wrong.  God 
knows  what  he  would  have  us  do — but  I would  be 
for  having  my  own  way. 

“I  remember  that  a circulation  of  only  two  thou- 
sand would  give  us  some  fifteen  hundred  dollars  clear. 
Yet  I do  not  know  what  is  best.  Then  I have  a 
hankering  for  the  work,  and  for  the  large  field  of 
usefulness. 

11  May  27.  It ’s  no  time  now  to  put  forth  the  little 
paper,  even  if  we  had  names  enough.  It  would  be 
almost  impertinent  with  the  country  in  this  state  of 
expectation.  We  must  wait. 

“July  3.  I had  a full  answer  from  Gray,  the  printer, 
the  other  day — and  now  I think  to  get  ready  some 
numbers  of  the  papers,  and  some  illustrations,  and 
begin — provided  the  affairs  of  the  country  meet  with 
no  reverses.  It ’s  pretty  work.” 

Yes,  the  work  was  of  the  rarest.  The  bits  of  need- 
ful study  in  all  sorts  of  fields,  the  endless  variety  of 
topics,  the  perfectly  set-free  fancy  and  imagination; 
no  one  can  tell  how  delightful  it  was.  We  did  all 
the  work,  of  every  sort,  except  preparing  the  wood- 
cuts;  and  the  head  of  the  printing  firm  told  some 


Writing,  Writing  44* 

one  that  we  were  “the  best  business  men  he  ever 
knew.” 

“July  4 • A beautiful  day.  We  very  quiet  at 
home — too  anxious  for  our  brave  army  to  enjoy  the 
day.  Yet  the  news  is  of  better  colour  and  hope 
today, — what  there  is  of  it.  Letter  from  Aunty,  giv- 
ing the  most  welcome  news  of  her  intended  return 
tomorrow.  How  good  that  is.  Also,  a note  from 
Mr.  V , at  Cozzens’ — proposing  to  call  here  to- 

morrow, with  a large  party  of  his  family  connections — 
mostly  unknown  to  us.  Could  have  spared  that, 
really. 

“ July  5.  Got  our  affairs  out  of  the  way,  and  we 
were  ready  for  all  comers  in  good  time.  But  how 
I waited  for  the  paper  to  come!  with  what  miserable 
agitation ! And  how  I felt  when  I heard  ‘ Hail  Colum- 
bia’ struck  up  at  parade  last  night,  I will  not  try 
to  say.  But,  thank  God,  the  news  today  is  very 
good ; and  I am  happy.  The  people  came,  and  made 
their  visit  satisfactorily,  I hope — and  we  gave  them 
superb  raspberries  and  Virginia  wafers. 

“ July  7.  Wrote  a good  deal  in  ‘Daisy.’  Eliza 
gone  home  since  Saturday — wanted  very  much.  What 
to  do?  Want  to  go  down  to  Cozzens’  to  see  Mrs. 
Godwin  who  sent  me  a message  from  her  mother — 
and  Julia  Bryant,  and  ask  them  up  here  to  breakfast. 
Good  news  still  from  the  army — but  they  and  McClellan 
and  Mr.  Lincoln  are  on  my  heart.  I long  for  the  grace 
of  God  to  be  with  them,  and  make  them  his  instruments 
of  blessing. 

“July  9.  Sent  to  Mrs.  Livingston  to  come  to  the 
breakfast — then  sent  to  the  Rossiters  for  ditto — but 
neither  of  them  could.  So!  Went  to  bed  well  tired. 
But  A.  and  I practically  set  the  table  first — and  I 


442 


Susan  Warner 


made  Brentford  rolls,  and  she  picked  part  of  our 
raspberries.  Does  it  pay?  Yet  it  seems  good  to  do. 

“ July  io.  Misty  morning — but  they  came.  I 
moulded  my  rolls,  got  out  spoons — and  dressed — 
and  then  too  utterly  tired  for  anything  else  lay  down 
on  A’s  couch  till  the  people  were  coming.  The  two 
ladies,  Mrs.  Godwin’s  daughter  and  little  son,  and 
Captain  Nichols,  of  Fremont’s  staff  lately. 

“Aug.  14.  Rhinebeck.  Mrs.  Bishop  (Alonzo) 
Potter  invited  us  to  breakfast  tomorrow. 

“Aug.  17.  A.  and  I walked  to  the  cottage  at  half 
past  eight  o’clock.  Miss  Julia  Stewart  there,  and 
presently  Mr.  Walsh  and  wife  and  friends.  Altogether 
a goodly  party  of  two  tables.  Talk  went  on  very 
briskly  and  the  breakfast  was  a success,  I should 
think.  Strong  coffee  and  waffles  and  muffins  made 
the  eatable  part  very  good.  Cinnamon  and  sugar 
in  a pickle  dish,  because  dishes  are  scarce.  The 
whole  party  picked  lint  afterwards  till  we  came  away. 
I drove  A.  home  in  the  pony  chaise. 

“Aug.  22.  The  Island.  Rainy  day.  Sent  off  copy 
for  first  number  of  ‘The  Little  American’  to  Gray. 
So  much  is  done.  May  God  bless  the  work!  May 
he  make  it  a blessing! 

“Sept.  18.  Went  about  my  despatches  first  thing 
and  finished  them  up.  Proofs,  copy  for  No.  2 — cheque 
to  Gray — letter  to  ditto — designs  to  Mr.  O’Brian  with 
cheque — a word  to  George — and  a word  to  Carters. 
Then  I rowed  the  post  basket  and  Father  over  the 
river.  Was  very  nervous  for  fear  the  Daniel  Drew 
should  make  her  appearance  before  I got  over — and 
I not  strong  enough  to  pull  strongly.  But  all  went 
well.  Terrible  work  in  Maryland — such  fighting — 
and  not  over  yet.  Afternoon  we  sat  in  pine  woods 


Writing,  Writing  443 

and  wrote.  0 pleasant.  The  paper  is  lovely — if  the 
Lord  will  bless  it. 

11  Sept.  ig.  No  man  nor  boy  to  be  had,  for  love 
or  money.  Curious!  Even  boys  are  taken  in  at  the 
foundry.  So  we  have  our  own  work  to  do.  I rowed 
Father  over  the  river  and  then  down  to  Gee’s  Point 
to  see  that  the  steamer  was  not  coming.  Afternoon 
out  crabbing — down  below  the  boathouse — a fresh 
northerly  breeze  blowing,  delightful,  only  I felt  not 
strong  enough  to  pull  home  against  much  opposition. 
Splendid  sport — I pulled  up  a number  of  crabs,  and 
lost  some  too.  Charming  writing.  Exercise  sets  me 
all  right. 

“ Sept . 2j.  The  President’s  Proclamation  of  Eman- 
cipation! O thank  God  for  this!  praise  him  for  this! 
How  I have  prayed  for  this,  or  for  the  effect  of  this. 

“Oct.  g.  A bundle  of  eight  papers  came — sure 
enough.  And  they  are  just  what  we  want  them  to 
be.  Just  right.  Now  may  God  give  his  blessing! 
I do  wish  it  might  do  well  enough  to  let  us  go  on 
with  it;  but  the  Lord  knows  best.  Perhaps  in  these 
hard  times  it  will  not  even  do  that — perhaps  it  will 
not.  I am  fond  of  the  little  paper — dearly  fond, 
already;  nevertheless,  let  the  Lord’s  will  be  done. 

“ October  14.  Busy  today  with  a most  sweet  piece 
of  work — writing  an  article  on  the  Catacombs.  I can- 
not tell  how  lovely  and  sweet  the  subject  and  the 
writing  have  been — leaving  a kind  of  fragrance  behind. 
O this  paper  work!  It  seems  like  a direct  working 
for  Christ — yet  maybe  the  Lord  will  not  have  just 
this  work  from  us,  and  I must  not  set  my  heart  on 
it  too  much.  But  it  is  immensely  sweet. 

“ October  17.  Rather  dull  headed.  Came  Nos. 
of  No.  2 from  Gray  and  proofs  of  No.  3 — and  letters. 


444 


Susan  Warner 


One  from  a lady  at  Newport,  desiring  her  name  to 
be  stricken  from  my  list,  the  paper  being  younger 
than  would  suit  her  daughters  fifteen  to  seventeen 
years  old.  Another  from  Mrs.  Lord,  kind,  but  with 
no  comment  on  the  paper.  I was  a bit  disheartened — 
foolishly,  of  course,  but  I was.  I had  been  looking 
for  expressions  of  pleasure  and  commendation  from 
people — and  the  first  thing  is  the  withdrawal  of  a 
name.  But  on  the  other  hand,  Father  says  this  is 
a delicious  number.  So!  My  other  letter,  from  a 
person  who  was  brought  to  Christ  in  reading  the 
W.  W.  W. — a very  remarkable  letter — and  one  to 
give  me  great  pleasure.  Enclosed  in  a very  kind 
note  from  Charles  B.  Tayler,  England..  Blessed  be 
the  name  of  the  Lord!” 

Next  day,  alluding  to  the  withdrawn  name,  she 
adds:  “I  feel  pretty  poor  tonight,  in  money;  for  I 
have  not  sixteen  dollars  in  the  world.  That  is,  in 
hand ; there  may  be  some  in  George’s  hand  (our  ‘ paper  ’ 
agent)  for  me.  And  I owe  the  washerwoman  a little 
sum.  But  then,  I am  not  poor,  for  One  knows  what 
we  want  who  is  rich;  and  he  will  provide. 

“ October  lg.  Sunday.  Windy — too  windy  for  me 
to  row  over,  most  part  of  the  day.  I was  not  very 
bright  myself  today— but  it  was  a good  day — I spent 
a deal  of  it  in  quiet  prayer.  0 for  power  and  blessing 
to  glorify  God  in  all  the  rest  of  my  life!  for  a blessing 
on  our  writings  and  especially,  if  it  might  be,  on  our 
paper,  to  tell  the  love  of  Jesus  to  many,  many!  O that 
I may  be  all  the  Lord’s  practically,  as  well  as  in  wish 
and  intent. 

“Oct.  20.  Letter  from  George — two  more  papers 
discontinued.  It  struck  very  cold  upon  me.  From 
Mrs.  Olin,  with  a word  of  praise.  From  Alice  Field, 


Writing,  Writing  445 

with  no  word.  Julia  Sands,  ditto.  No  word  of  com- 
mendation, that  is.  From  Mr.  Putnam  with  a wish 
that  the  paper  were  done  in  New  York  and  on  better 
paper.  Altogether  I was  well  disheartened  and  dis- 
couraged— nor  have  I got  a bit  of  work  written  today 
beside  letters.  Yet  there  are  three  new  subscribers! 
— and  God  has  sent  to  me  in  these  letters  no  less  than 
fifteen  dollars — which  I wanted  very  much  for  imme- 
diate use.  ‘O  faithless  and  perverse.’  Anna  has 
been  working  hard  to  keep  up  my  courage.  Lord, 
help  me. 

“ Oct . 21.  Letter  from  dear  Mrs.  Prentiss,  heart- 
ening and  comforting,  with  its  strong  sympathy  and 
her  Annie’s  strong  approval  of  every  word  of  No.  1 
of  the  papers.  Felt  much  better — and  thankful  to 
have  heart  to  go  to  work  again.  . . . How  shameful 
to  be  depressed  or  doubtful  at  all  about  anything. 
Yet  I was  yesterday. 

11  Oct.  24.  Out  in  the  pine  woods  a good  while 
sawing  and  chopping — In  and  made  a tea  cake  for 
lunch— that  and  coffee  we  had.  After  that,  got 
writing  at  ‘Daisy’  and  wrote  like  a house  afire — 
towards  ten  pages.  Wrote  again  after  tea  with  Anna 
‘ Breakfast- table  ’ — but  I had  better  not — I was  too 
tired. 

11  Oct.  25.  Nos.  of  paper  3 came — Father  and  Aunty 
delighted — I too!  Well — if  it  pleases  the  Lord,  it 
may  do.  Anna  told  me,  this  year  had  done  two  or 
three  things  for  her.  She  is  willing  to  sell  part  of 
the  Island!  and  I have  proposed  it  to  Mr.  J.  today. 
And  A.  said  that  when  we  saw  that  company  of  friends 
at  Miss  Garrettson’s  last  summer — friends  loving  each 
other  so  much — there  was,  after  the  first  feeling  of 
pain,  a quiet  giving  up  of  the  like  pleasure  for  our- 


446 


Susan  Warner 


selves.  She  came  square  with  the  subject,  as  she 
said — and  let  it  go!  There ’s  a good  deal  in  that.** 
The  schooling  was  constant,  the  lessons  many  and 
varied.  She  had  had  a class  of  neighbourhood  chil- 
dren come  every  Sunday  afternoon  for  Bible  study. 
Now,  the  father  brought  word  they  could  not  come. 
She  adds  submissively : 

“Well,  my  Bible  Class  was  beautiful  while  it  lasted ! ” 
“Nov.  g.  Sunday.  Storm,  storm — a beautiful, 
driving,  wdld  storm.  A good,  sweet,  quiet  day. 
Precious  because  of  its  rest  from  weekday  cares  and 
thoughts.  ‘Sweet  day,  stay  and  don’t  go!’  I said 
to  it  in  my  heart.  Read,  etc.,  quietly  in  the  little 
sitting-room  most  part  of  the  day.  Over  the  Bible 
more  than  anything  else.  And  I would  fain  ‘see 
Jesus’ — but  I did  not.  Yet  the  day  was  good  and 
fair.  Ah  I am  not  a hundredth  part  thankful  enough.” 
In  town : — 

“Nov.  15.  Through  last  night,  when  partly  waking 
up,  my  thought  was  of  the  joy  of  knowing  Christ. 

“Nov.  23.  Sunday.  Good  weather,  but  cold.  To 
church  of  course.  Air.  Prentiss  again  on  ‘sinless  per- 
fection,’ as  the  one  aim  and  object  of  a Christian 
life, — whether  attained  tomorrow  or  a thousand 
years  hence.  It  seems  wonderful  to  hear  him.  Anna 
said  before  coming  out  of  church,  she  had  felt  like 
crying  for  joy.  It  was  very  fine  preaching. 

“Nov.  24.  Lay  on  the  couch,  with  Mrs.  Prentiss 
talking  to  me  and  I to  her,  in  very  confidential  style 
on  her  part.  Anna  and  I cling  hard  to  our  friends — 
here  I have  so  made  a nest  for  myself  already  in 
Airs.  Prentiss’s  companionship  and  the  peace  and 
friendship  and  pleasure  of  her  home.” 

We  were  to  spend  that  winter  in  a cottage  at  Rhine- 


Writing,  Writing  447 

beck,  and  my  sister  went  first  to  see  what  things  we 
needed  to  bring  from  home.  The  journals  shew  her 
identity  in  full  force, — nerves  and  all. 

“ Bee.  g.  Father  went  over  early,  but  could  get 
no  note.  So  I prepared  to  go  alone,  seeing  nothing 
else  before  me.  When  just  as  I was  dressing,  came 
Mr.  Adams!  Can  I tell  how  glad  we  were,  and  eased! 
And  I don’t  know  that  I ever  had  so  nice  a journey 
or  ever  shall  again.  First,  however,  we  had  a good 
cup  of  tea — he  and  I and  Anna — with  toast  which 
she*made — then  with  no  care,  no  fear,  no  annoyance, 
we  went  our  journey,  I did,  I mean.  Till  Pough- 
keepsie Mr.  Adams  talked — then  he  read  John  Hunt’s 
life,  and  talked.  It  was  so  good — too  good  to  be 
true.  Then  arriving — and  welcomed — and  the  dinner 
with  Miss  Garrettson  and  Mr.  Osborn,  and  the  tea 
with  Miss  G.  alone.  ‘How  pleasant  it  is  to  make 
tea  for  you  two,’  she  said.  Then — in  my  room  I 
sat  up  too  long  before  the  fire,  praying  for  holiness.” 

Next  day,  sending  me  her  list  of  things  to  bring, 
she  adds : 

“I  came  up  with  almost  no  fatigue — because  I had 
no  care  nor  anxiety.  One  ought  to  rest  in  God  with 
the  same  quiet  absence  from  fear  with  which  I came 
up  the  river  yesterday.  I see  now  what  one  ought 
to  do, — yea,  I may. 

“Ever  thine,  in  great  comfort  and  happiness  at 
this  present — in  good  hope  for  the  future,  with 
love  to  Father  and  Aunty.  Susan.” 

I suppose  it  happens  often,  that  nerves  bestir 
themselves  in  the  smoother  spots  of  life  rather  than 
amid  the  rough  going.  I,  at  home,  had  no  place  for 
them.  Sorting,  packing — then  a boatload  on  its  way 
to  Rhinebeck  missed  the  train, — Saturday,  too. 


44§ 


Susan  Warner 


“You  can  imagine  our  dismay/’  I wrote  her.  “There 
were  the  bedclothes  and  the  freezables  all  left.  Well, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  patience,  and  hope  that 
it  would  not  grow  cold — ‘in  your  patience  possess 
ye  your  souls,’  as  I thought  to  myself.  But  I think 
moving  is  a luxury  meant  for  people  who  have  servants. 
I was  so  glad  to  have  Sunday  come,  when  business 
need  not  be  thought  of, — and  a little  sad  to  have  it 
go.  I thought  as  I sat  at  tea  that  these  changings 
and  removings  were  wearisome  things — and  then 
flashed  to  my  mind  with  a sort  of  new  light — “Lord, 
thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations.” 
Is  there  not  an  immutable  answer  for  every  mutable 
thing?” 

Staying  at  Wildercliffe,  working  “hard”  to  get  the 
cottage  in  order  for  us,  she  tells  of  one  specially  valued 
friend,  giving  him  the  soubriquet  made  up  by  his 
little  niece. 

“ ‘Misi  Onkli’  went  away  today.  What  is  there 
about  this  man,  that  one  must  feel  his  coming  and 
going  so  much?  And  his  prayer  this  morning,  after 
various  thanksgivings — ‘We  thank  thee  for  this  morn- 
ing, just  as  it  is,  for  all  thou  hast  given  us,  and  all 
thou  hast  withheld;  however  troubled,  or  perplexed, 
we  may  find  ourselves,  we  thank  thee  for  it  all!’ 
O these  are  words  for  a poor  creature  to  say  and  live 
by!  ‘I  am  very  sorry  M.  O.  is  going  away  today!’ 
said  Miss  G.  as  I have  heard  her  say  before,  and  I 
could  but  in  my  heart  say  so  too!” 

Dec.  jj, — she  writes,  with  Father  and  Aunty  both 
away: 

“And  A.  and  I sit  here  in  our  little  parlour  at 
work.  Our  home  is  sweet  and  pleasant — and  our 
work — and  our  dear  friend  in  the  neighbourhood — 


Writing,  Writing  449 

and  I have  joy  in  the  Lord.  Surely  goodness  and 
mercy  have  followed  us  all  the  days  of  this  year!  and 
shall  follow  us  ever.” 

The  journals  cease, — and  for  the  next  half  dozen 
years  either  none  were  written,  or  they  were  after- 
wards destroyed.  They  were  years  full  of  work; 
with  busy  winters  in  town,  busy  summers  at  home,  a 
good  deal  of  quiet  entertaining,  and  now  and  then 
visits  away.  Our  little  paper  lived  two  years ; and  then, 
with  the  pressure  of  war  prices,  had  to  be  given  up, 
for  we  had  no  capital  to  risk.  It  brought  us  much 
pleasure,  and  not  a cent  of  loss.  “ Melbourne  House,” 
begun  for  the  paper,  was  finished  and  published  in 
book  form;  followed,  later,  by  “Daisy,”  and  “Daisy 
in  the  Field.”  In  that  decade  also  “The  Old  Helmet” 
was  written,  with  various  smaller  books,  and  even  a 
magazine  story  now  and  then. 

In  the  summer  of  1867,  my  sister  went  with  Miss 
Haines  to  Trenton  Falls,  and  then  to  Niagara.  Her 
nerves  in  full  play;  so  that  drives  were  not  a 
pleasure,  and  the  Suspension  Bridge  a dread;  but 
with  eyes  and  heart  in  eager  readiness  for  all  they 
could  take  in.  So  soon  after  the  war  time,  its  influ- 
ence lingered,  touching  even  the  guests  at  the  Clifton 
House;  “very  different  (they  say)  from  what  is  to 
be  met  at  the  Cataract  House  on  the  other  side,  where 
quantities  of  rowdies  and  common  people  come  from 
Buffalo  and  other  parts.  This  is  not  a resort  of 
common  people.  English — and  rebs!  Yes,  that  is 
the  sort,  only  round  the  table  are  another  sort — 
an  army  of  black  waiters.  Such  good  ones,  too. 
And  how  they  interest  me.  I like  to  study  their 
diverse  physiognomies  and  indulge  the  fancied  asso- 
ciations of  their  former  life  which  these  call  up,  and 


45° 


Susan  Warner 


notice  the  traits  coming  out  which  I have  learnt  to 
know  in  Buckner  and  John.  The  quick  deft  hands — 
the  quick  observant  or  sagacious  eyes — the  mutual 
good-will  and  courtesy — the  glance  of  intelligence — 
the  smile  of  incipient  fun.  There  is  an  English  Colonel 
opposite  us;  a real  John  Bull,  eating  and  drinking  with 
a plenitude  of  comfortable  enjoyment,  and  entering 
into  pleasant  social  relations  with  countrymen  oppo- 
site him,  at  my  right  hand,  and  secesh  at  his  side 
at  his  right  hand.” 

Of  these  last  she  describes  rather  minutely  several 
types,  sometimes  placing  them  too:  “If  she  does  not 
come  from  New  Orleans,  I am  out  in  my  guess”; 
and  finally,  after  some  dress  details:  “As  she  went 
on,  gathering  up  her  dainty  robe  above  the  lace  petti- 
coat (I  don’t  know  if  it  were  lace)  I could  fancy  hdw 
to  their  sable  dependents  such  figures  had  been  once 
the  objects  of  almost  superstitious  admiration  and 
reverence;  asserting  by  the  very  power  of  personal 
presence  their  right  to  be  worshipped  and  obeyed. 
I am  a long  time  getting  on  with  my  story!  But 
when  I see  these  people — these  coloured  people — 
about  me,  my  heart  gives  such  songs  of  rejoicing  that 
their  evil  day  is  over.  Thank  the  Lord!” 

With  glimpses  and  bits  of  vision  from  the  omnibus, 
the  party  reached  the  hotel  at  one  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  and  went  straight  to  their  rooms. 

“Miss  Haines  opened  the  window,  and  we  went 
out  upon  the  gallery,  and  going  close  to  the  balu- 
strade, and  leaning  forward  till  I put  one  of  the  great 
pillars  between  me  and  the  moon  (she  was  so  low 
down  as  to  dazzle  one’s  eyes)  I had  the  scene  before 
me. 

“The  eastern  fall  opposite,  in  full  light — bright, 


Anna  13.  Warner 

From  a Photograph  by  W.  Kurtz 


s V~f*  » 


UVWERSnv  OF  W**0 3 


Writing,  Writing  451 

the  water  and  the  mist — and  above  to  the  right  the 
misty  column  of  vapour  declaring  the  other  fall  on 
which  the  moon  did  not  so  much  revealing  work. 
I stood  still  and  looked  and  said  nothing.  The  im- 
pression— do  you  want  to  know  it?  of  course  you 
do — was  not  grandeur,  nor  power,  nor  vastness;  none 
of  these ; but  unearthly  and  perfect  beauty.  Unearthly 
and  perfect.  And  you  not  by  my  side.  Anna,  I stood 
and  cried — and  cried.  It  makes  me  cry  now  again 
to  tell  you  of  it.  They  could  not  see  what  I did,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  moonlight  and  my  veil.  And  here 
the  stricture  comes  over  me  again  and  I am  no  better 
than  a child.  I was  tired  too,  you  know;  and  except 
two  prunes  and  two  mouthfuls  of  biscuit,  had  eaten 
nothing  since  our  two  o’clock  dinner;  and  fasting 
anybody  will  tell  us,  is  a proper  way  to  produce  an 
exalted  state  of  the  nerves.  At  last,  for  we  stood 
there,  or  I did,  a good  while,  Miss  Haines  brought 
me  a tonic.  I swallowed  it,  but  forbade  her  to  speak 
of  you,  when  she  began.  And  at  last  I came  into 
my  room,  for  the  moon  was  indeed  low;  but  I cried 
more  that  night  than  I have  done  in  a long  while 
before. 

“ Aug.  13.  I left  off  with  Saturday  night,  or  Sunday 
morning,  about  two  o’clock,  did  I not?  I got  to  bed 
at  last  and  slept  royally.  Yet  I was  not  late  up. 
A beautiful  morning;  and  indeed  the  light  and  the 
sun  showed  beauties  that  the  moon  and  the  night 
could  not.  I looked  a few  minutes — then  turned 
away;  I wanted  my  breakfast,  and  did  not  like  using 
my  eyes  or  my  head  much  till  I got  that.  When 
should  I get  it?  I was  not  fit  for  anything.  I took 
my  pillow  and  doubling  it  up  sat  down  by  my  bed- 
side, and  laid  my  head  down  upon  it,  there  to  wear 


452 


Susan  Warner 


out  the  time  as  I could.  I had  taken  another  prune 
and  morsel  of  biscuit  before  going  to  bed — that  was 
all.  I was  in  a state.  Twice  landscapes  came  before 
my  closed  eyes;  landscapes  which  I had  never  seen; 
one,  a group  of  two  children  jumping  up  and  down, 
their  garments  fluttering.  It  wTas  not  till  near  half 
past  nine  that  we  went  down,  and  at  twenty  minutes 
to  ten  that  I got  something  to  eat  and  drink.  Fair 
coffee  then,  and  good  fish  and  rolls,  somewhat  made 
me  up. 

“But  I could  not  have  willingly  listened  to  a ser- 
mon. So  the  rest  all  went  to  church  and  left  me 
nothing  loth,  alone,  in  the  big  room  which  Miss  Haines 
says  is  in  common,  and  in  the  rocking-chair  she  had 
placed  for  me  before  the  open  window.  There,  having 
locked  the  door,  I sat,  wTith  my  book  in  my  lap,  little 
fit  for  much  reading  or  thinking  you  may  imagine; 
with  that  beautiful  American  fall  before  my  eyes 
when  I could  bear  to  keep  them  upon  it.  For  that 
day  I was  content  with  the  American  fall;  and  left 
the  other  for  other  times.  If  I could  give  it  to  you! 
It  pours  over  a straight  edge  of  rock,  only  at  the  edge 
and  here  and  there  deep  enough  to  shew  the  green 
hue  of  the  water;  still  at  those  places  giving  it  in 
fainter  or  deeper  touches  and  bands;  while  the  rest 
of  the  sheet  is  broken  into  a torn  sheet  of  foam,  most 
like  the  cardings  of  wool,  if  you  could  imagine  them 
of  weight  enough  to  fall  apart  from  each  other.  There 
was  a changeful  light  in  the  sky,  the  masses  of  fair 
weather  clouds  partly  veiling  it ; and  accordingly 
changed  the  hues  and  tints  or  the  shadows  of  the 
falling  sheet  of  foam.  Sometime  faint  green  alter- 
nating with  purple  neutral  tints;  as  the  day  grew 
older,  the  shadows  turned  to  cooler  greys,  or  faint 


A Good  Year 


453 


indications  of  ashes  of  roses.  Over  this,  upon  this, 
veiling,  dressing,  decorating  all  this,  softening  all  that 
might  be  hard  lines  or  edges  or  forms, — the  rising, 
rolling,  changing,  shifting  cloud  of  white  mist.  Then 
with  the  knowledge  that  just  round  the  corner  of 
the  piazza  or  from  the  glass  door  even  I could  see 
the  other  and  greater  fall,  with  its  larger  beauty — 
do  you  wonder  that  for  the  day  I was  satisfied  to 
look  at  the  one?  I was  satisfied.  My  sense  of  beauty 
was  filled.  I do  not  know  if  I could  have  enjoyed 
it  equally  if  I had  been  that  day  in  strong  and  clear 
health.  As  it  was,  in  my  dreamy  weariness  I lay 
and  looked — and  shut  my  eyes,  and  looked  again — 
and  the  text  came  into  my  head  to  which  Niagara 
will  always  henceforth  be  the  commentary.  I am 
afraid  you  can  hardly  understand  it,  even  after  all 
I have  said.  Doubtless,  to  those  who  love  the  Bible, 
Niagara  is  a commentary  on  some  text  or  other;  and 
different  according  to  different  minds  and  experiences ; 
but  this  is  mine.  Fancy  the  unearthly  beauty — fancy 
those  delicate  changing  shadow  tints — fancy  the  ever- 
lasting flow  and  beauty  of  that  breaking  foaming 
overflow  of  the  waters — remember  the  glory  of  the 
other  fall,  completing  the  utmost  wish  of  the  beholder 
— and  think  if  it  was  an  unapt  remembrance  of  the 
‘fulness  of  joy,  and  pleasures  forevermore.’  And  that 
ever  rising,  and  changing,  and  rising  cloud  and  gush- 
ing of  spray,  what  does  that  stand  for,  with  the  beat 
and  the  sound  of  the  cataract, — but  the  voice  of 
harpers  harping  with  their  harps  and  singing  their 
new  song — new,  and  yet  ever  the  same! 

“We  had  an  excellent  dinner,  which  a little  more 
made  me  up;  but  I would  not  and  was  not  fit  to  go 
out.  The  rest  went  to  see  the  grave  of  Miss  Ching. 


454 


Susan  Warner 


I staid  with  the  falling  waters,  and  the  beauty,  and 
my  Bible.  And  at  evening  the  moon  rose  upon  it 
again.  But  w^e  went  to  bed  in  pretty  good  season.” 

The  winter  of  ’68-9  we  were  to  spend  at  Rhinebeck, 
and  my  sister  went  first,  to  have  things  in  order. 

“ Nov.  28 , 1868.  I tho’t  maybe  Anna  "would 
come  by  the  earlier  train — the  day  quiet  and  fair — 
but  she  did  not;  and  having  no  letter  I sent  Stephen 
to  order  the  omnibus.  I must  go  down  to  meet  her — 
though  in  the  uncertainty  it  w~as  a bugbear  to  me, 
the  long  rough  ride.  Dinner  without  much  appetite — 
and  waiting,  warming  my  feet;  and  the  ’bus!  Then 
going  round  the  streets  to  pick  up  people — the  old 
lady  who  wanted  to  be  set  down  at  the  turning — the 
fat  traveller,  the  fat  and  fair  young  lady  in  black, 
the  mother  with  a wdiole  load  of  children  of  various 
sizes,  with  their  clothes  full  of  cooking  smoke.  Let 
down  my  window,  but  could  not  stand  it.  However, 
the  ride  was  not  bad;  the  ’bus  went  better  than  the 
light  carriage.  Waited  at  the  station,  and  tho’t 
would  I go  home  with  Miss  G.  (as  she  said)  if  A.  did 
not  come?  Then  the  train.  I go  out — they  roll  up 
close  alongside — I push  past  some  men  to  see, — and 
yes,  I do  see  the  tippet  and  the  brown  hat  and  the 
outlines  that  are  like  none  other.  And  I am  happy. 
The  nine  checks  are  handed  over — the  basket  of  eat- 
ables is  not  found — to  be  telegraphed  for — we  get  in 
the  ’bus,  and  Eliza;  and  happy,  make  the  way  home. 
Later,  Mr.  Millard  called — and  later,  good  Mr.  Ackert 
after  bringing  the  first  load,  went  again  and  got  the 
rest,  basket  and  all!  And  I am  thankful. 

“ Dec.  12.  I am  to  have  a Bible  class  of  older 
scholars,  young  men  and  young  women.  Liberty 
given  to  conduct  it  just  as  I please.  It  started  into 


A Good  Year 


455 


my  head  after  dinner,  to  take  my  class  a journey 
through  Palestine,  seeing  all  we  could,  and  talking 
over  all  the  history  connected  with  each  place. 

“ Dec.  20.  Mr.  H.  came  to  me  towards  the  close 
of  school,  to  say  that  the  teachers  were  very  desirous 
of  having  a Palestine  class.  Of  course  I was  willing — 
and  Saturday  evening,  in  our  little  room,  was  ap- 
pointed and  announced.  The  Lord  make  it  good! 
If  he  will,  it  would  be  most  delightful. 

“ Dec . 25.  Very  cold  today — driving  across  the 
flats  the  wind  was  pitiless  on  my  head  and  face.  But 
the  ride  did  not  last  long  enough  to  make  it  a serious 
evil.  I turned  my  face  to  the  other  side  and  looked 
at  the  magnificence  of  winter.  And  the  thought,  I 
have  maybe  never  had  it  before,  came  sweet  and  rare 
into  my  heart — rather  the  feeling — that  I belonged 
to  Him  who  had  made  all  that,  and  that  his  riches 
of  glory  and  power  were  in  such  sense  mine.  ‘Heirs 
of  God.’  I had  a good  ride. 

“Dec.  26.  Spent  the  day  in  study  for  my  teachers’ 
class  this  evening.  Only  three  came,  which  disap- 
pointed me.  Had  a pretty  talk  about  Beersheba. 
O how  curiously  little  they  know  about  even  Bible 
things.  My  Christmas  chair  is  absolutely  delightful. 
Our  new  photographs  and  maps  from  Mr.  Watson 
are  unspeakably  precious;  and  the  study,  how  dear 
it  is.  How  wonderful  good  the  Lord  has  been  to 
us ; I would  turn  my  advantages  to  account  for  others, 
if  he  will  give  grace  and  power. 

“Dec.  28.  Up  early  to  write — yet  with  breakfast 
at  eight  do  not  get  time  enough.  Don’t  get  my  six 
pages.  Then  at  work  the  rest  of  the  day,  studying 
for  my  Saturday  evening  class.  It  will  take  much 
time — it  will  hinder  my  study  for  my  third  volume— 


456 


Susan  Warner 


yet  the  call  has  come  to  me  to  do  this,  the  promise 
seems  of  usefulness,  and  I cannot  throw  it  off  It 
may  be  even  good  for  my  work.  I am  ready  to  be- 
lieve so.  At  any  rate,  I have  not  sought  it;  it  has 
come  to  me;  and  it  is  excessively  pleasant,  if  I may 
be  useful  and  blessed  in  it.” 

The  “third  volume”  of  which  she  speaks  was  one 
of  a series,  which  grew  up — I think  from  some  work 
done  for  our  little  paper.  We  thought,  that  it  would 
be  good  to  go  over  the  Bible  story,  for  children;  not 
in  the  least  re-writing,  adapting,  or  expurgating,  but 
searching  out  and  setting  forth  all  the  light  which 
manners  and  customs,  geography  and  travellers’  ex- 
plorations, really  throw  upon  the  Bible  story.  So 
we  sent  for  books  (sometimes  to  England)  and  taught 
ourselves  first,  from  the  best  authorities  we  could 
find.  My  sister  took  the  Old  Testament,  I the  New. 
“ Walks  from  Eden,”  “The  Star  out  of  Jacob,”  and  “The 
House  of  Israel”;  and  this  “third  volume”  of  hers, 
must  have  been  “The  Kingdom  of  Judah.”  I may 
add  that  a gentleman  fresh  from  the  Holy  Land,  said 
that,  next  to  the  Bible,  these  books  of  my  sister’s 
were  his  best  guide-books  over  there. 

“Dec.  2g.  Writing  in  the  morning — then  hard 
study  again.  Tired.  And  the  multitude  of  matters 
for  this  study  is  so  great,  one  is  in  danger  of  getting 
nervous  and  anxious.  The  remedy  is  to  do  this  as 
everything  else,  for  my  Lord,  and  depending  on  him.” 
Certain  methods  of  study  we  used  with  our  classes 
that  winter  had  seemed  to  work  so  well,  that  it  was 
decided  to  put  the  lessons  in  more  permanent  form, 
we  taking  counsel  with  our  friend  the  minister  of 
the  church.  And  I am  tempted  to  give  the  story 
of  one  happy  day  in  that  spring;  the  rather  because 


A Good  Year 


457 


it  makes  first  mention  of  a new  member  of  our  family. 
One  who,  beginning  with  extreme  waywardness  and 
wilfulness,  soon  won  our  hearts,  developing  later  into 
the  simplest-hearted  believer;  and  who,  with  her  most 
efficient  hands,  her  true  heart,  and  her  childlike  faith, 
has  been  for  many  years  my  greatest  earthly  stay  and 
comfort.  Called  elsewhere  “our  new  girl,  Bertha. ” 

My  father  and  Aunt  Fanny  had  gone  back  to  the 
Island  to  oversee  the  early  spring  work;  my  sister 
and  I still  lingering  at  Rhinebeck. 

11  Monday,  April  5.  Mr.  H.  was  coming  to  break- 
fast. So  we  waked  up  about  four  o’clock  and  did 
not  go  to  sleep  again.  Got  up  in  reasonable  time 
however.  Anna  saw  to  stewing  sweetbread  and  fry- 
ing potatoes  and  making  porridge — and  I got  the 
sheets  of  the  lessons  into  order.  There  was  a little 
that  wanted  to  be  done.  Finally,  put  a wick  in 
the  coffee-pot  lamp — pending  which  Mr.  H.  arrived. 
Meanwhile  Bertha,  whom  we  had  got  last  night  to 
go  to  church  with  her  old  shawl,  had  been  detailing 
over  the  sermon,  most  extraordinarily,  to  Anna,  half 
upsetting  her;  telling  Mr.  Harrower’s  words  at  much 
length  and  detail;  and  having  come  down  with  so 
sobered  a face  and  bearing  that  A.  feared  at  first  lest 
she  had  a headache  or  a fit  of  homesickness;  but 
the  thing  came  out  in  an  earnest  ‘Miss  Anna!  I wish 
I was  nice  like  that  minister!’  ” 

“So  we  had  prayers  now  with  her  and  John  in; 
‘in  this  quiet,  cheerful,  happy  way,’  as  Mr.  H.  said 
in  his  prayer  (or  something  like  that) — and  after,  A. 
told  him  what  Bertha  had  been  saying.  Then  I 
shewed  Mr.  H.  how  to  use  the  coffee-pot,  which  is 
to  be  left,  along  with  some  other  things;  and  we  had 
breakfast,  with  talk  of  Sunday-school  and  lessons 


458 


Susan  Warner 


and  other  matters;  and  then  we  examined  and  tried 
A.’s  new  study  method;  and  Mr.  H.  suggested  addi- 
tions, etc.  Finally  Mr.  H.  went,  proposing  to  come 
back  in  the  afternoon  for  the  lessons  and  his  Bible, 
which  came  to  be  written  in.  Then  I worked  and 
finished  the  MS. — wrote  to  Carters,  and  wrote  sam- 
ple pp.  of  the  lessons,  etc.,  for  their  examination; 
we  had  lunch,  A.  and  I.  At  four  o’clock  Mr.  H. 
came  back;  and  we  had  just  the  nicest  possible  little 
time,  of  just  such  words  and  things  as  I could  have 
desired.  This  was  satisfying  and  good.  Well,  I am 
very,  very  thankful  for  all  this.  It  seems  just  like 
a very  smile  of  our  Father  in  heaven.  We  were  tired, 
when  the  day  was  so  far  over;  and  had  our  tea  with 
steak  and  potatoes,  roasted,  and  long  clams  just 
ready,  when  Miss  C.  came.  So  we  kept  her;  and  how 
she  did  enjoy  the  evening.  And  Mrs.  S.  came  when 
Miss  C.  was  going,  and  stayed  rather  late,  for  us.” 

Speaking  of  something  that  had  grieved  her : 

“Quieter  in  the  evening — trying  to  be  ‘a  weaned 
child’ — went  to  bed  at  last  with  a headache,  tired 
and  overwrought — but  laid  myself  at  Christ’s  feet 
and  slept  it  away. 

11  April  1 6.  (In  the  cars  coming  home  from  Rhine- 
beck.)  The  girls  came  to  the  station  with  me.  And 
I had  a ride  of  joy  and  enjoyment  all  the  way  to 
Cold  Spring,  such  as  I never  had  in  the  cars,  or  any- 
thing, that  I know.  Such  thankfulness  for  the  gifts 
of  the  day — such  joy  of  trust  in  Christ  and  devotion 
to  him  and  resting  in  his  hand  to  be  used  as  he  should 
choose — given  up  to  him  for  work  in  less  pleasant  and 
easy  circumstances  and  without  the  advantages  of 
the  winter — but  His,  to  do  what  and  where  and  how 
he  will — praying  that  he  would  be  my  sufficiency 


A Good  Year 


459 


and  not  let  me  lose,  but  gain  rather;  resting,  rejoicing, 
ti usting,  thankful,  glad;  making  Christ  all  my  strength. 
A ride  to  be  remembered.” 

But  life  at  our  Island  was  often  such  very  unbroken 
work,  in  those  days,  that  the  coming  back  from  the 
livelier  stir  of  city  or  village  life  always  tired  her. 

“The  spring  is  pretty — the  grass  is  green — but  we 
are  alone!  Two  weeks  since  I came  home.  Between 
that  day  and  this,  there  is  the  sort  of  difference  that 
there  is  between  the  landscape  all  painted  with  the 
setting  sun,  and  the  same  landscape  a little  later 
when  the  colours  are  gone.  The  outlines  are  the 
same;  but  greys  have  replaced  the  crimson  and  the 
gold.  Yet  how  ought  it  to  be?  The  Lord  is  not 
bound  by  agencies.  He  can  give  himself  without 
using  his  servants  to  be  his  messengers;  why  is  it 
grey?  We  are  not  here  and  alone  without  some  real 
purpose  to  be  answered — some  real  good  to  be  gained, — 
what  is  that?  Is  it  to  find  my  Lord  alone,  without 
adventitious  helps  and  stimulants?” 

“I  can’t  count  on  anything  now,”  she  writes  a 
month  later.  “Yet  God  can  give  what  he  will — 
and  if  he  pleases  not,  why,  then  it  is  well  too.  I have 
been  thinking,  if  this  great  loneliness  and  isolation 
is  to  make  us  do  more  work  or  do  it  better,  with  more 
entireness  of  heart  or  strength  of  desire, — why  I am 
content.  I feel  the  isolation  and  the  loneliness  very 
great  indeed.  And  today,  when  the  letter  came  from 

Mr.  and  another  from  Mrs.  Prentiss,  I found 

the  brush  with  other  people’s  full,  stirring  lives  had 
touched  Anna  with  sadness.  I can  easier  bear  and 
feel  it  myself  if  I think  she  does  not.  Yes,  we  are 
alone,  and  more  or  less  out  of  people’s  minds.  Now 
the  thing  is  just  to  take  it,  not  be  morbid,  not 


460 


Susan  Warner 


to  think  that  would  be  good  for  us  which  God  has 
withholden — Eve’s  mistake — and  let  Christ  dwell  in 
our  hearts  by  faith. 

11  June  22.  The  atmosphere  of  the  Island  is  very 
unmitigated  work,  these  days.  Yet  how  exceedingly 
peaceful  and  sweet  and  lovely  and  comfortable — 
and  I desire  not  to  speak  nor  think  discontentedly.” 

Another  long  break — and  the  journal  begins  again 
with  an  Island  winter. 

“ Jan . 1,  1871.  Sunday.  The  new  year  opened 
for  me  with  a disordered  state  of  things.  I had  over- 
done my  strength — the  day  or  two  past — and  today 
was  under  par.  Not  suffering,  but  obliged  to  lay 
down  my  head  and  sleep  a great  part  of  the  time. 
Reading  a little  in  a quiet  way. 

“ It  seemeth  not  easy  to  see  how  I can  go  to  church 
at  all  this  winter.  I could  if  I were  rich — but  I am 
very  poor.  I do  not  know — perhaps  I might  hire 
a carriage  from  Cold  Spring — but  not  a close  carriage 
certainly,  nor  perhaps  a covered  one.  How  could  I 
stand  the  ride  in  an  open  carriage?  But  I am  quite 
content,  if  this  is  the  Lord’s  will.  He  knows  what 
he  has  for  me  to  do.” 

I give  the  record, — it  describes  in  brief  so  many 
days  that  came  thereafter.  Pressure  of  blessed  work, 
straitened  means,  head  and  nerves  so  easily  out  of 
order;  and  the  childlike  acceptance  of  what  the  Lord’s 
will  marked  out.  But  strength  was  very  much  broken ; 
and  the  healing  and  helping  of  change  and  society 
came  but  in  small  measure,  in  any  way  that  gave 
refreshment. 

“Jan.  3.  I am  writing  now  another  volume  of 
Matilda’s  story,  to  sell  out  and  out  to  the  Carters 
when  done,  for  immediate  needs.  I want  to  stop 


A Good  Year 


461 


this  selling  of  copyright — but  it  is  difficult.  Evils 
have  a great  tendency  to  prolong  themselves.  Writing 
in  the  afternoon  on  my  beloved  S.  S.  lessons — on 
Enoch.  I get  very  tired,  but  the  work  is  very  sweet- 
and  all  is  lovely — except  that  the  house  is  not  in 
winter  order  yet. 

“ Wednesday , 4.  So  sweet  and  quiet  and  peaceful 
our  life  is,  that  it  is  hard  to  tell  how  much.  It  is 
all  sweet,  in  a way.  The  morning,  the  work,  the 
rest  of  the  night,  the  study  of  the  Bible,  the  still 
quiet  peace  of  the  outer  and  inner  world.  Is  it  not 
so  always,  as  soon  as  God’s  will  is  put  really  first 
and  Christ  is  the  satisfying  and  desired  love  of  the 
heart?  Is  it  not  that  which  makes  all  so  lovely? 
For  we  are  alone,  and  expect  to  be;  I cannot  get  to 
Bible  Class  nor  meeting.  But  Christ  is  the  rest  of 
my  heart.  I want  to  know  him — for  yet  I do  so 
little.  I want  to  taste  the  love  I have  been  all 
my  life,  I suppose,  unable  or  unfit  to  know.  I want 
that!  and  to  be  perfect  with  the  Lord,  living  in  his 
light  even  now.” 

One  can  but  think  of  Psalm  4 : 6 — 

“There  be  many  that  say,  who  will  shew  us  any 
good  ? Lord,  lift  thou  up  the  light  of  thy  countenance 
upon  us.” 

“ Friday , 13.  Up  and  at  my  morning  work  again. 

0 Gospel  of  Christ,  how  sweet  thou  art!  How  sweet 
the  Bible  truths  and  Bible  words.  And  how  un- 
utterably sweet  the  particular  truth  that  Jesus  saves 
from  sin.  I have  much  joy  of  that.  I do  not  think 

1 have  exactly  entered  upon  the  full  experience  of 
it,  but  the  faith  of  it  is  a great  joy  to  me. 

11  Jan.  16.  Aunty  says  I look  as  if  I were  working 
too  hard — look  delicate — I dare  say.  I have  been 


462 


Susan  Warner 


working  to  the  edge  of  possibility;  and  it  is  difficult 
and  hazardous;  one  easily  goes  over  the  line.  I try 
not.” 

Next  day:  “ Had  such  a turn  just  after  my  morning 
breakfast,  that  writing  could  not  go  on;  it  passed  off 
with  a nap,  and  I cut  my  hay.”  (Working  the  cutter 
was  one  of  our  exercise  ways  that  winter.)  “Then 
prepared  my  Rhinebeck  lesson.  Lost  my  story  writing 
for  today. 

“I  am  trying  to  live  by  faith  in  Christ,  and  I be- 
lieve he  will  keep  me  from  sinning.  No  one  can 
tell  what  a joy  this  belief  is,  nor  how  it  brings  the 
Lord  Jesus  near;  yet  I have  not  yet  fully  got  the  good 
of  it  nor  entered  the  privilege;  yet  even  now  this  is 
true.  Peace  reigns,  and  hope  takes  a large  place, 
and  privilege  seems  to  have  no  bounds. 

“Ice  so  crowded,  could  not  send  over;  cooler,  and 
very  fine  weather.  It ’s  beautiful,  all  of  it,  here.” 

It  had  been  arranged  that  we  should  prepare  and 
send  our  Rhinebeck  Bible  classes  a lesson  every  week 
And  then  it  was  further  proposed  to  put  them  in 
more  permanent  form,  for  use  by  other  people,  else- 
where. 

11  Jan.  18.  Finished  the  lesson  of  Enoch,  which 
I had  to  write  over.  How  I love  these  lessons ! But 
I do  not  hear  from  Randolph’s  printer  for  whom  I 
sent  three  lessons,  just  at  the  beginning  of  January, 
to  begin  to  print  them.  And  now  I must  take  care 
not  to  set  up  my  own  will.  I love  the  lessons;  yes, 
I do,  dearly.  But  if  the  Lord  please  not  to  use  them, 
or  that  I should  do  them  for  the  general  public,  now 
let  His  will  be  done.  And  that  means,  like  it. 

11  Jan.  22,  Sunday.  O what  a holiday!  what  a 
sweet  day,  this  has  been!  I left  week  cares,  and 


A Good  Year 


463 


business,  and  rested,  and  delighted  myself.  Was 
well,  and  so  able  to  use  the  day.  With  Alford’s  Notes, 
with  the  hope  of  salvation,  with  rest  of  heart.  My 
eyes  were  tender,  so  that  I could  not  read  continu- 
ously— I could  read  and  think.  There  was  a little 
spur  of  pleasure  from  the  letter  of  yesterday  and  its 
tidings.  From  beginning  to  end,  the  hours  of  the 
day  went  by  freighted  with  rest  and  peace  and  hope — 
bodily  rest,  and  the  rest  of  trusting  in  Christ  for  all 
things,  present  as  well  as  future. 

“Jan.  25.  Very  cold  still,  but  the  sun  shone  bright; 
that  helped.  Work  as  usual — morning  and  afternoon, 
and  hay  cutting.  Little  fear  of  interruption  and  how 
good  it  is!  It  is  one  of  Anna’s  rejoicings,  that 
nobody  can  come  and  nobody  is  to  be  asked  to 
tea.  I agree  with  her  too;  we  are  so  pressed  with 
work  just  now,  nothing  that  broke  it  up  would  be 
welcome.  Our  stoves  work  well — but  the  house  is 
such  a barn  they  have  a great  deal  to  do.  However, 
we  have  a nice  warm  dressing  room  in  the  morning, 
if  the  weather  is  so  cold  at  night  that  we  wake  up 
often.  Not  sleep  cold,  but  wake  up  easily — and  get 
up  willingly. 

“ Thursday.  The  work  is  very  sweet — if  only  I 
dared  press  it.  But  the  thing  is,  to  be  Christ’s — to 
do  his  will  always  and  keep  in  his  presence — what 
can  go  amiss  then?  Nothing  will  do  for  me  now 
but  that  rest  of  faith.  To  live  quite  according  to 
the  Bible,  what  a deep,  high,  difficult,  rare,  hidden 
thing  it  is.  To  die  to  self — then  live  to  the  Lord. 

“May  7.  (In  town.)  Communion  Sunday.  Mr. 
H.  preached.  Then  the  service  after,  which  was 
very  happy  to  me.  Methought,  Christ  and  I are 
one;  and  the  bread  and  the  wine  are  the  pledge  of 


464 


Susan  Warner 


all  the  promise  I want.  And  I am  Christ’s.  The 
minutes  kneeling  at  the  chancel  rails  w^ere  happy 
minutes.  O Lord,  I love  thee,  I thank  thee,  thou 
art  mine.  And  I am  thine;  for  all  things  in  life  or 
duty,  I am  thine  only. 

“At  home , July  3.  A nice  row — an  hour  in  the 
tent — correcting  last  proofs  of  ‘House  in  Town.’ 
Well,  that  is  done.  Now  for  the  S.  S.  lessons  if  I 
can, — I have  not  touched  them  till  the  other  day 
since  I went  to  New  York.  Resting  awhile  with 
‘Robert  Falconer’ — the  best  and  the  worst  of  Mac- 
donald’s doings  in  print.  Now  expecting  Mrs.  Ely 
and  mother  and  Jamie.  Too  busy  to  expect  with 
absolute  and  unmixed  pleasure.  But  work  is 
sweet — and  the  tent  is  delightful — and  the  river  is 
precious — and  the  beautiful  things  the  Lord  has 
made  and  given  me  are  very  delicious,  very  prized 
and  delighted  in,  by  me.  I ought  to  be  so  good! 
Lord,  make  it  so!  and  help  me  to  wrork. 

“July  8.  L.  writes  that  they  will  come,  if  con- 
venient, next  Thursday.  And  the  E.’s  here!  How 
we  can  or  we  can’t  remains  to  be  seen.  Am  very 
tired  whiles,  and  yet  I do  nothing  about  the  house. 
But  Anna  and  Aunty — This  summer  we  felt  as  if  we 
had  better  ask  nobody  we  could  help;  and  lo,  such 
a flood  of  company  as  we  have  not  seen  for  years. 
My  darling ! she  has  too  much.  Aunt  F.  is  perfectly  lovely. 

“Sept.  21.  Better  again  and  able  to  work  care- 
fully. I wish  so  to  be  able  to  help  Anna,  and  day 
after  day  I am  unable.  Sometimes  I do  not  take 
care  enough  or  deny  myself  in  the  matter  of  getting 
work  done.  She  has  too  much  to  do.  My  refuge 
is  in  God.  As  I told  Mr.  H.,  one  of  the  ways  we  live 
is,  by  not  looking  at  second  causes.” 


Writing,  Writing  465 

Expenses  were  heavy,  that  year,  in  various  ways. 
In  the  winter  my  father  had  a bad  fall,  which  laid 
him  by  for  a long  time  from  active  work;  and  then 
when  August  came,  our  dear  other  blessed  stay  and 
helper  was  smitten  with  a sudden  and  very  severe 
illness.  More  hands  needed  in  the  house,  doctor’s 
bills  were  in  sight.  In  the  spring,  when  it  was  found 
needful  to  have  another  man,  I said  I would  try  and 
make  our  garden  meet  the  extra  expense — and  for 
two  seasons  I did  it.  Writing  September  30,  my 
sister  says : 

“Anna  has  just  paid  in  for  the  month  past  fifty-five 
dollars  for  garden  sales,  and  six  dollars  for  butter. 
The  Lord  feeds  us — the  supplies  come  in — it  is  sweet 
to  be  so  fed.  But  Anna  is  too  pressed. 

“Oct.  12.  Getting  ready  for  a trip  to  town.  Well, 
it  is  not  very  lively  work  to  go  without  Annie.  But 
it  is  duty,  and  I must  go,  for  work  and  for  my  own 
good.  So  may  the  Lord  be  with  her  and  with  me 
and  bless  us  all  the  while. 

“Oct.  13.  Beautiful  day — Jerry  being  late  and  so 
Bertha,  our  breakfast  was  so  hindered  we  could  not  get 
off  in  early  train.  Mr.  Adams  had  the  benefit  of  the 
morning  for  a great  walk — I,  for  finishing  up  my 
preparations.  So  after  dinner  we  rowed  down  to 
Garrisons.  It  was  sober  work — Annie  standing  on 
the  dock  looking  after  us — I kept  my  watch  on  her, 
sorrowfully  enough,  till  at  last  she  turned  and  went 
slowly,  slowdy  up  the  path;  the  dark  spot  of  her  water- 
proof cape  appearing  and  disappearing,  slowly,  slowly, 
as  she  went  up  the  path  to  the  house.  No  Delly; 
did  I not  know  that  she  missed  her!  My  tears  rose 
and  fell;  and  Mr.  Adams  steered  wrong,  and  I did 
not  know  it.  We  had  a good  run  down  in  the  cars; 


3° 


466 


Susan  Warner 


and  he  went  with  me  in  the  green  cars  to  Broad- 
way.” 

“Delly”  was  a much-loved  little  black  and  tan 
terrier,  that  had  died  late  in  the  summer.  Once,  my 
dear  little  follower  everywhere.  Nothing  shews  up 
our  exceptional  life  more  than  these  partings,  and 
the  letters.  Do  sisters  look  after  each  other  so,  in 
these  days?  Not  those  I see. 

“ Nov.  4.  In  town.  Miss  Haines  in  the  door — 
asked  ‘ who  did  I think  had  come  ? ’ — and  in  the  parlour 
was  Anna.  Looking  delightfully  well,  too.  Strange 
and  sweet  to  have  Anna  again. 

“Dec.  j.  Sunday.  Anna  headachy — stayed  at 
home.  But  I wanted  so  much  to  have  the  cheer  and 
gladness  of  it,  that  I went  up  to  Seventy-first  Street — 
knowing  it  was  communion  Sunday.  But  I was 
wofully  disappointed.  Text  ‘made  nigh  by  the 
blood  of  Christ’ — but  it  was  the  social  and  moral 
and  intellectual  bringing  nigh  that  was  insisted  on. 
Well!  Cease  ye  from  man.  But  the  communion 
service  was  swTeet.  And  as  we  knelt  still  (almost  the 
last  set)  Mr.  H.’s  closing  words  almost  made  me  smile 
to  myself.  ‘The  Lord  fulfill  all  thy  petitions.  Take 
this  signet  from  the  finger  of  the  King,  as  a pledge 
that  he  will  keep  all  his  promises’  (or  something  like 
that) . One  of  my  petitions  wras  for  the  speaker. 

“Dec.  19.  (At  home.)  Writing,  and  trying  to  get 
forward  with  things  a little.  Our  fire  is  pleasant. 
Janetta  makes  it  early,  before  we  get  up — then  at 
evening  after  tea  I have  a little  time  by  myself,  couched 
on  the  rug  in  front  of  it.  So  pleasant.  The  approach 
of  Christmas  is  pleasant  too.  I feel  it;  we  have  made 
nice  preparations  to  give  pleasure;  but  in  the  mean- 
time I look  to  Christ  and  rest  in  him,  and  make  my 


Writing,  Writing  467 

treasure  in  him.  Then,  whatever  other  sweetness 
may  come,  will  be  good  only  and  sweet  truly. 

11  Dec.  31.  Sunday.  A little  dull  yet — yes,  so  dull 
that  the  day  could  not  be  properly  enjoyed.  Could 
not  study  much  or  exert  myself  much  in  any  way. 
So  long  the  effect  of  these  turns  lasts.  I have  it  in 
hand  to  be  very  careful ; and  self-denying  about  work 
if  necessary.  Not  much  feeling  about  its  being  the 
last  day  of  the  year.  But  I can  recognise  the  last 
year,  this  one  just  done,  as  the  best  of  all  my  life 
For  the  Lord  has  brought  me  so  near,  that  I feel  like 
a child;  and  given  me  faith  so  far  that  I feel  free  and 
glad.  Thanks  to  his  name  for  ever  and  ever.” 

No  further  record  of  that  winter — and  none  of 
1872 — remains.  The  next  entry  I can  find  dates 
at  Say  brook,  Conn.,  where  we  spent  the  winter  of 
1872-73. 

“Jan.  1,  1873.  Sweet  Saybrook  under  a thick 
carpet  of  snow — early  writing — dress,  and  book  and 
cake  done  up  and  sent  to  Miss  C.  Then,  my  Russia 
shopping-bag  and  olive  paper-weight  and  stamp-box — 
and  I gave  A.  her  work-basket  and  illuminating  ma- 
terials and  book.  Tired,  and  little  work  done  after 
the  first.  Morning  writing  makes  me  feel  slim,  as 
yet.  Went  to  Mrs.  Morgan’s  and  gave  them  a lively 
call — sent  Albert  and  Janetta  a sleigh  riding — they 
went  up  to  the  New  Year  festival  in  the  evening  and 
had  great  delight.  So  our  holidays  have  been  pretty. 
Thank  the  Lord,  even  for  these  things.” 

She  had  taken  a class  in  the  S.  School  of  the  village 
church,  and  arranged  to  have  the  girls  to  tea  and  talk 
one  evening  in  the  week,  after  our  old  Rhinebeck 
fashion,  which  had  seemed  to  work  so  well.  Now 
she  was  talking  up  a weekly  Bible  reading  with  the 


468 


Susan  Warner 


older  ladies;  not  a class,  but  a read-and-talk  evening. 

Meantime,  our  Albert — a young  coloured  man  from 
the  South,  had  suddenly  got  all  astir  concerning  his 
own  religious  state;  going  about  the  house  with  a 
face  that  went  to  our  hearts,  and  eyes  too,  sometimes. 
Once,  watching  the  bowed  head  as  he  went  sorrow- 
fully round  the  sitting-room  with  brush  and  duster, 
I drew  near,  and  asked  if  he  felt  any  better, — but  a 
tearful  breakdown  was  all  the  answer.  So  he  would 
sometimes  almost  drop  the  dishes,  and  hurry  away 
from  his  service  round  the  table. 

“Albert  gets  no  light  yet,”  she  writes  of  Sunday. 
Monday  she  calls  herself  “slim,”  but  has  up  the  sleigh, 
and  goes  all  about  asking  guests  for  her  Bible  reading. 

Next  day.  “Last  night  I had  gone  upstairs,  wg,s 
undressed,  wThen  I heard  a most  extraordinary  noise 
in  the  kitchen — sounds  of  stamping  or  shuffling  feet, 
laughing,  crying.  It  was  Albert,  become  happy.  He 
and  Janetta  had  been  sitting  over  the  stove,  talking, 
and  he  sorrowful;  no  light;  felt  worse;  then  at  once 
it  came;  as  he  said  ‘it  seemed  to  shine  right  down 
through  him,’ — ‘the  love  seemed  to  come  right  down 
through  the  hole’ — (in  the  ceiling).  It  was  so  clear 
now.  ‘Why,  I couldn’t  do  anything!’  he  said,  half 
exult  in  gly.  This  morning  when  I told  father  Albert 
had  found  Christ,  Albert  came  up  (with  the  break- 
fast). ‘Mr.  Warner,  does  you  know  Jesus  was  here 
last  night?’  Thank  the  Lord!  I thought  to  myself 
last  night,  looking  out  at  the  moonlight ; what  a thing 
it  was,  a soul  born  into  life!  ” 

“O  if  the  Lord  would  give  me  the  souls  of  my 
girls,”  she  writes  on  the  18th,  “and  make  the  Bible 
readings  a great  blessing.” 

“Jan.  20.  Very  smart  for  Monday.  Wrote,  at 


A Good  Year 


469 


more  times  than  one — finished  sock  begun  Friday. 
Afternoon  I went  out  to  make  calls.  Met  Miss  Mary 
near  her  gate,  and  walked  with  her  as  far  as  our  gate, 
talking  eagerly.  She  had  heard  from  Miss  S.  about 
the  Bible  readings — and  told  me  what  R.  and  herself 
said  afterwards — they  would  like  greatly  to  come 
and  hear  me  read  and  explain  a chapter;  not  so  sure 
about  other  people’s  words,  etc.  And  then  she 
went  on,  with  feeling — how  some  talk  and  social 
meetings  made  her  feel  only  wicked;  and  others  she 
could  listen  to  by  the  hour  with  delight.  Ay!  I know. 
And  how  M.  M.  and  she  had  enjoyed  the  breakfast 
here  the  other  day.  Maria  had  said  it  was  worth 
coming  for,  only  to  hear  the  blessing  asked!” 

Ah,  the  reality  wins.  Not  what  may  or  might  be, 
but  'what  is. 

“Jan.  26.  Fine  day — plenty  of  snow — but  we 
three  walked  to  church.  I was  tired  by  the  time 
sermon  was  done;  nevertheless,  had  a good  time  with 
my  class.  I am  seeking,  seeking,  to  lay  hold  of  the 
promise,  and  know  the  full  salvation.  Half  I do;  yet 
the  fullness  of  joy  and  of  power  that  people  tell  of,  I 
know  not  yet.  But  I am  the  Lord’s;  yes,  he  shall 
have  me  wholly;  his  to  be  and  do  what  he  pleases. 
Come  and  take  possession,  O Lord!” 

I think  the  Bible  readings  were  even  better  than 
we  hoped.  In  dear,  happy  New  England,  work  does 
not  loiter  about  and  get  in  one’s  way;  it  is  disposed 
of  on  time.  And  so  when  the  early  dinner  dishes 
were  washed,  there  was  a clear  field  till  tea  time; 
and  the  thrifty  house- wives,  most  of  whom  had  no 
helpers  but  their  own  deft  hands,  were  presently 
ready  for  silk  dresses  and  an  outing. 

It  was  a splendid  set  of  women  that  came  to  the 
Bible  readings.  Excellent  readers  aloud,  with  almost 


470 


Susan  Warner 


no  exception;  clear-headed,  lively-tongued ; with  a 
fine  self-poise.  Able  to  relish  a brisk  discussion  of 
questions  deep  and  high;  as  well  as  the  simple,  in- 
formal tea  that  followed  the  talk.  And  I never  saw 
such  absolutely  well-bred  people  in  point  of  curiosity. 
We  were  from  another  part  of  the  country,  and  very 
different  sort  of  life ; and  many  of  our  ways  must  have 
seemed  unusual.  I have  not  a doubt  those  capable 
eyes  took  it  all  in.  But  there  was  never  a curious 
glance  at  our  furniture,  our  dress,  our  salads,  or  our  cake. 

It  was  a small  ten-year-old  from  one  of  these  very 
families  (nine  children  besides  himself)  who  used  to 
spice  my  S.  School  teaching  with  such  little  questions 
as  these : 

“Miss  Warner,  what  do  you  think  about  the  pre- 
Adamite  man  ? ’ ’ 

“Miss  Warner,  what  language  do  you  suppose  was 
probably  spoken  before  the  Deluge  ? ’ ’ 

“ Very  thankful  again  to  find  myself  well,”  she  writes 
another  day,  ‘ ‘ for  there  was  work  ahead.  Did  not 
accomplish  a great  deal  of  my  own  peculiar  work. 
Mrs.  Bur  gin  was  detained,  and  Miss  Ingraham  I sup- 
pose; we  had  Mmes.  Morse,  Hart,  Pratt,  Zabriskie, 
Miss  Sandford,  and  Miss  Whittlesey.  Third  chapter 
Acts.  An  earnest,  very  lively  talk;  not  quite  so  much 
lingering  or  waiting  for  one  another  in  reading;  Anna 
thought,  more  of  a business  feeling.  O the  Lord  grant 
us  his  Holy  Spirit!  I proposed  prayer  at  the  end. 
Our  supper  was  beautiful — chicken  salad  and  loaf 
cake  and  cruller  (rolls  of  course) — and  the  ladies 
enjoyed  the  whole  greatly — said  so.  ” 

Another  day:  “Miss  Whittlesey  surprised  me  by 
saying  I did  n’t  know  how  much  these  readings  had 
done  for  her — like  the  beginning  of  a new  life.” 
Another:  “Mrs.  M.  says  that  E.  S.  says  she  has 


A Good  Year 


47i 


learned  more  in  four  or  five  meetings  than  in  four 
or  five  years  of  Bible  class.” 

So,  seemingly,  the  Bible  readings  had  the  blessing 
for  which  she  prayed. 

One  Thursday,  when  she  had  been  “overdone” — 
and  then  “slept  off  into  health  again,”  eight  came. 
“And  a very  nice  talk,  and  breezy,  pleasant  after- 
noon, and  bright  tea.  I am  so  thankful!” 

Again,  with  ten:  “Acts  16.  We  had  a beautiful 
afternoon — an  afternoon  to  be  thankful  for.  Spirited, 
earnest,  warm  talk — on  Christian  joy,  for  one  thing. 
Pleasant  tea  hour;  0 how  good  it  has  been. ” 

“ June  7.  At  home  again.  Sent  over  money  and 
got  the  tent  and  this  afternoon  had  it  set  up.  Under 
the  maples,  in  the  shade — a lovely  place. 

“Make  myself  melancholy  over  ‘Daisy’ — Don’t  see 
how  I came  to  write  such  a sad  book.  Studying 
German  pleasantly. 

June  8.  Of  one  of  her  half-sick  Sundays,  my  sister 
writes : 

“Slept  a great  deal  of  the  morning,  upstairs  on 
my  little  bed,  with  Tip  in  my  arms.  Refreshed  a 
little  with  sleep  and  dinner,  was  able  to  do  a little 
bit  of  study  and  writing  and  reading  in  the  tent — 
but  not  a great  deal.  Then  little  Tip  came  to  me 
and  lay  in  my  lap,  and  twice  came  up  higher  to  lie 
on  my  arm  upon  my  breast.  And  again  at  evening 
on  the  lounge,  he  crept  into  my  arms  and  laid  his 
little  nose  in  or  against  my  hand.” 

“Tippoo  Sahib”  was  a wee,  wee,  black  and  tan;  of 
perfect  shape  and  breeding,  extremely  beautiful.  So 
small  that  for  a while  we  carried  him  up  and  down 
stairs;  finding  ample  room  to  bestow  himself  on  a 
friend’s  arm  as  it  lay  folded  on  the  lap.  So  placed 


472 


Susan  Warner 


with  one  of  us,  he  would  arrange  himself  to  see  the 
others  as  well;  the  lustrous  eyes  going  back  and  forth 
in  absolute  content.  Instinct  with  the  most  vivid 
life,  to  the  tip  of  every  fine  hair,  active  and  gay  as 
a squirrel;  he  was  the  only  living  creature  I ever  knew, 
that  was  absolutely  devoid  of  what  we  call  a “ temper.’ * 
Sweet,  joyous,  kind — there  were  no  cross  threads  in 
that  little  make-up. 

“ June  g.  Began  our  solitary  tea  and  morning 
writing  again.  Had  a good  time  for  the  first;  then 
knitting  and  etc.  But  Tip  was  missing — Albert  went 
over  the  hill  to  search,  and  brought  him  home,  shot 
dead.  Ah  me!  we  were  very  weary  and  sorry  then. 
Anna  made  half  sick,  and  0 how  I wished  to  be  away 
from  here.  We  worked  and  worked — but  the  day 
was  very  sad,  lonely,  and  gloomy.  At  night  I was 
very  fidgety — had  to  pray  and  trust  it  down.  Thank 
God  for  that. 

“ June  io.  Today  was  better  than  yesterday,  as 
times  go.  But  Anna  is  terribly  cast  down.  I worked 
through  the  day,  writing,  sewing,  studying.  Grass 
partly  cut  on  the  lawn.  Albert  mowed  a swath  under 
the  weeping  ash — and  there  at  evening  we  buried  our 
little  pet.  Little  Tip!  how  inexplicably  strange  it  is! 
And  sad.  I have  been  exceedingly  depressed — last 
night  even  very  fidgety — very  sad — very  wishing  we 
could  get  away  from  here.  This  is  not  homelike  now. 

“ June  13.  Beautiful  weather — beautiful  work — 
but  we  do  miss  our  little  dog  sadly.  O we  miss  him! 
I do,  and  Anna  more.  ” 

In  that  restlessness  of  sorrow  which  would  fain  get 
away  from  itself,  and  cannot,  she  goes  on  with  details 
of  home  work  and  pressure,  and  hindrance,  and  tells 
of  one  great  pleasure  and  help. 


Writing,  Writing  473 

“ I was  studying  German  in  the  tent  when  they 
(some  visitors)  came.  It  is  a blessing  to  me.  It 
refreshes  and  amuses  and  distracts  me,  and  is  a source 
of  satisfaction.” 

The  next  Sunday:  “A  good  day — in  which  I hope 
I gained  something.  Have  I got  away  from  my  moor- 
ings lately?  I have  been  more  depressed  than  ever 
in  my  life,  unless  times  of  some  particular  pressing 
trouble.  So  I must  have  got  away  from  my  moorings. 
I have  tried  to  get  back,  in  a measure,  today.  Surely 
I ought  to  be  very  content  and  happy.” 

Next  day.  “Work — writing — knitting — sewing — 

again  writing  Wych  Hazel  with  Anna.  Trying  to 
get  back  to  wholeness  of  rest  in  God  and  devotion 
to  him — -that  is  what  I want.  Is  that  why  our  little 
dog  was  killed?  How  we  miss  him!” 

People  will  call  us  “fanciful.”  Yet  if  such  hap- 
penings are  not  “attrition,”  I understand  not  the 
word.  I suppose  we  took  too  terribly  fast  hold  of 
what  we  loved;  our  life  lesson  seemed  generally  to  be: 
“Unclasp  your  fingers — loose  your  hold.”  It  had 
come  to  be  second  nature  with  us,  at  any  new  turn, 
to  say : ‘ ‘ What  is  this  meant  to  do  ? ” 

“Let  Him  wring — and  be  ye  washen,”  said  Samuel 
Rutherford. 

“ June  18.  We  are  puzzled  a little  to  know  why 
our  way  is  so  strange  this  summer,  and  both  of  us 
so  down-spirited.  It  is  sadly  true  of  us  both.  Beau- 
tiful weather — but  one  thing  after  another  which  we 
thought  we  would  have  here,  at  least  those  things, 
one  after  another  fails. 

“ June  28.  Not  well  yet.  But  A.  and  I went  to 
the  tent  and  we  wrote  Wych  Hazel — with  engravings 
hanging  up  to  the  canvas  to  write  about  them.  Grew 


474 


Susan  Warner 


better  as  the  day  went  on.  How  we  miss  Tip!  And 
sorely  Anna  mourns  for  him. 

11  July  ij.  Sunday.  A busy,  pleasant  day — busy 
rather  with  resting.  We  had  to  take  care  to  do  that. 
At  ten  o clock  the  servants  come  to  the  tent  ground, 
and  sit  round  and  we  have  a Bible  reading — going 
through  the  gospel  history.  It  is  very  nice.  Then 
Wednesday  evenings  we  have  an  O.  T.  reading  and 
prayer.  It  is  very  good. 

“ July  14.  Early  writing  in  the  tent,  when  weather 
serves — in  afternoon  Anna  and  I generally  get  another 
bout  at  Wych  Hazel.  In  the  interim  I knit”  (she 
had  a knitting  machine),  “exercise,  lie  on  the  sofa, 
study  German,  drink  beef-tea, — sometimes  sew.” 

An  author’s  opinion  of  his  own  work  is  often,  I 
think,  amusing. 

“Read  Say  and  Seal,”  she  writes.  “Much  of 
that  is  very  good  indeed.” 

Next  day:  “A  little  row — which  I bear  pretty  well — 
and  reading  Say  and  Seal.  Ah  how  lovely  it  is! 
some  of  the  best  and  brightest  work  we  ever  did. 
Yet,  it  does  not  bear  the  praise  of  that,  so  far  as 
sales  go.” 

Next  day:  “Very  ragged  from  the  effect  of  days 
past;  could  not  do  my  morning  task,  and  the  after- 
noon writing  was  not  enjoyed.  Part  of  that,  though, 
was  because  I wanted  to  read  ‘Say  and  Seal.’  Since 
last  week,  and  one  or  two  days  of  studying  the  prom- 
ises to  prayer,  my  feeling  has  changed.  I am  quieter, 
happier,  resting  my  thoughts  of  wish  or  fear,  in^  God. 
And  greatly  desiring  to  please  him  in  purity,  every 
day.” 

“Finished  ‘Say  and  Seal,’”  she  says  again.  “It 
is  very  sweet — but  it  is  not  good  to  eat  sugar  too 


Writing,  Writing,  475 

long  at  a time — puts  one’s  mouth  out  of  taste  for 
other  things.” 

“ Sunday , July  20.  At  ten  o’clock  the  servants 
come  to  the  tent  door  and  we  read  in  the  Gospels* 
That  is  nice. 

11  July  22.  Cool  beauty — early  in  the  tent,  feeling 
more  like  myself.  Not  finish  my  five  pages  when 
had  to  go  row.  Rowed  rather  far — above  the  sunken 
rock — tired — lie  and  sleep  and  rest  for  ever  so  long. 
This  afternoon  a good  long  writing  with  Anna.  But 
I do  not  feel  sanguine  about  Wych  Hazel  as  about 
Say  and  Seal.  Soft,  sweet  day.  I feel  better— -will 
have  no  will  but  the  Lord’s  will. 

11  July  25.  Not  seven  a.m.  Lovely  morning.  In 
the  tent.  Feeling  better.  O how  gracious  God  is, 
and  how  I want  to  be  his  good  child!  Little  bit  of 
row.  Beaten  egg  which  was  very  good  to  me.  Then 
P.  O.  despatches  till  half  past  ten.  Then  in  the  tent 
with  Bible  and  sweet  texts  till  dinner.  ‘ I sought  the 
Lord,  and  he  heard  me,  and  delivered  me  from  all 
my  fears.’  And  I am  such  a fearful  creature.  Day 
very  warm — over  91  degrees — but  lovely  and  breezy. 
Writing  Wych  Hazel  in  the  afternoon  with  some 
satisfaction.  Study  German  with  much.” 

Our  dear  Miss  Haines  used  to  talk  of  “attrition,” — 
giving  that  name  to  the  minor  trials  and  sorrows 
which  seem  so  small,  and  yet  are  set  to  do  such  fin- 
ishing and  polishing  work;  with  fine  and  sharpened 
tools.  We  must  have  needed  a great  deal  of  polishing. 

“Aug.  2.  Worked  at  Wych  Hazel  morning  and 
afternoon — I think  some  eighteen  or  nineteen  pages. 
Little  pages.  Got  a little  row  too.  Feeding  a little 
young  warbler  which  A.  found  alone  in  the  grass 
Thursday  evening  and  brought  in.  Feeding  it  with 


476 


Susan  Warner 


flies — a pretty  business!  The  creature  came  to  know 
us  enough  to  turn  its  little  head  after  us,  expecting 
its  food.  But  some  pieces  of  hornet  unadvisedly 
given,  or  somewhat  else,  suddenly  disordered  the 
delicate  organisation,  and  it  died  this  evening.  It 
touched  me;  I had  such  a tenderness  for  the  little 
thing. 

“Aug.  j.  Sunday.  The  day  a very  seeking  and 
desiring  one, — I had  somehow  got  out  of  my  place 
and  rest  and  joy — too  much  engaged  last  week  with 
the  imaginations  of  ‘Say  and  Seal.’  So  today  has 
been  rather  a stretching  out  my  hands  to  reach  and 
clasp  somewhat  they  had  lost  hold  of. 

“Aug.  14.  A.  and  I write  Wych  Hazel  perse- 
veringly.  I have  got  very  much  interested.” 

Busy  with  guests  too,  in  those  summer  days;  and 
between  walks  on  the  Island,  and  excursions  to  parade, 
she  often  read  aloud  for  their  amusement.  Some- 
times: “Biglow  papers  have  been  well  laughed  over.” 
Then:  “I  read  aloud  ‘Fred,  Maria,  and  Me.’  Such 
a delighted  audience!  It  is  positively  inspiring.” 
Then:  “I  began  to  read  Christie  Johnstone,  and 
read  a while  before  tea,  and  again  after.  And  shouts 
of  laughter!  such  shouts  of  laughter!  as  greeted  the 
reading,  it  was  worth  while  to  work  for.  Great 
entertainment  to  me  as  well  as  to  them.  I had  for- 
gotten how  rich  that  book  is.”  Another  day:  “One 
of  our  long,  long  rows  on  the  river,  with  two  men 
at  the  oars,  and  earth  and  water  and  sky  in  the  glory 
of  a late  August  afternoon.  No  wonder  our  friends 
found  the  rest  they  needed.” 

“It  has  been  one  of  our  perfect  visits,”  she  writes 
joyfully,  “in  which  much  good  has  been  done.  And 
we  are  glad  and  very  thankful.” 


477 


Writing,  Writing 

“Aug.  28.  Another  beautiful  day,  outside  the 
tent.  Inside,  the  day  one  whirl  of  ‘ Wych  Hazel.’  ” 
Over  some  visitors  she  grew  comically  hot. 

“Resting  after  work,  who  should  knock  but  Mr. 
who  bestirred  himself  so  over  Father’s  dic- 
tionary. He  staid  to  dinner.  And  like  a fool,  I 
invited  him  to  make  a visit  of  a few  days,  thinking 
the  dictionary  might  be  the  gainer.  Well — he  was 
going  to  Peekskill — but  apparently  he  thought  he 
might  as  well  take  his  opportunity — for  he  staid; 
without  brush  or  comb  or  valise.  And  I found  he 
had  not  manners  enough  for  our  table. 

“ Sunday,  Aug.  31.  A nice  day  of  reading  and 
praying  and  quiet;  in  afternoon  gave  Albert  a lesson 
in  Bible  references,  and  then  I got  a little  tired.  I 
know  it  now  by  my  becoming  nervous;  bodily,  I 
mean.  But  Albert  had  said  at  close  of  our  morning 
reading,  ‘ I have  a craving  desire  to  know  the  whole 
Bible’ — and  I wanted  to  help  him.” 

Besides  her  work  on  “Wych  Hazel,”  she  was  now 
writing  “Willow  Brook,”  between  whiles. 

One  day;  News  today  of  the  engagement  of 

and . The  nicest  engagement  I ever  heard  of. 

Well — there  came  a vision  of  the  great  gladness  upon 
some  eyes  just  now — a vision  that  has  merely  looked 
in  at  our  windows  and  passed  by ! And  then  I thought, 
afterwards,  I was  rather  glad  there  was  nothing  between 
Christ  and  me.” 

That  fall  of  1873  a wonderful  joy  was  given  us, 
in  the  great  meeting  of  the  Evangelical  Alliance  in 
New  York.  Staying  with  Miss  Haines,  reserved  seats 
secured,  it  was  pleasure  of  the  rarest,  never-to-be- 
forgotten  sort.  Merely  to  look  at  those  five  hundred 
delegates — almost  “of  every  kindred  and  tongue  and 


478 


Susan  Warner 


people  and  nation,” — stirred  one’s  heart  to  its  depths. 
My  sister  writes : 

“ Oct.  j.  To  Steinway  Hall — good  seats — delight- 
fully interested.  Mr.  Prentiss  on  platform — Mr.  A.  S. 
Hunt  just  before  us — the  beautiful  17th  of  John — 
Dr.  Hodges’  prayer  for  the  Spirit — the  young  German 
doctor  with  a face  like  a German  hymn — Dr.  Schenck’s 
flesh  and  blood  contrast — Mr.  Prochet’s  account  of 
Italy,  cut  short.  Then  the  walk  to  Association  Hall, 
near  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Fisch — the  crowded  lunch  room — 
nevertheless  cups  of  coffee  and  tea  and  sandwiches. 
Afternoon  in  Hall. 

“Oct.  4.  In  Association  Hall — we  have  got  lovely 
seats  in  the  gallery,  where  with  my  glass  I can  see 
faces  beautifully,  and  hear  nicely.  Dr.  Plodges’ 
speech  was  the  feature  of  the  day.  Wise,  strong, 
simple,  clear,  irrefutable,  sweet,  and  tender.  So, 
very  great.” 

And  as  it  went  on,  from  the  human  mass  below 
us  came  ever  and  anon  responses.  Not  loud, — soft 
whispers,  rather, — from  all  over  the  Hall, — as  Dr. 
Hodges  told  what  made  a Christian,  and  what  a 
Christian  Church. 

“Yes!” — “Yes!” — “That ’s  it!”  “That’s  it!” — 
they  cried  softly;  even  the  Englishman’s  “Hear!  hear!” 
was  almost  under  breath.  I think  I understood  “the 
communion  of  saints,”  that  day,  as  never  before. 

“Evening.  Reception  to  the  French  and  Swiss 
delegation,  at  Miss  Haines’.  I have  not  had  such 
a dose  of  adulation — or  of  praise — in  a long  while. 
The  pleasure  of  many  French  and  others,  at  being 
introduced  to  me,  and  the  reports  of  the  popularity 
of  my  work  abroad,  were  very  pleasant.  So  were 
some  talks  I had.  Dr.  Taylor  was  very  nice,  Dr. 


Writing,  Writing,  479 

Ormiston  funny.  Got  through  the  evening  pretty 
well — pleasure  is  strengthening. 

“ Oct.  6.  Slim,  rather.  However,  in  our  places. 
Dr.  Leathes  (Eng.).  I have  almost  forgotten  him, 
everything  else  is  so  effaced  by  the  remembrance  of 
Prof.  Christlieb  and  his  address.  Ah  me!  he  made 
us  cry,  and  not  us  only;  I saw  faces  of  men  on  the 
platform  whose  eyes  were  wet  too.  How  the  people 
applauded  him!  And  what  is  it  in  Anna  and  me 
which  so  affiliates  with  this  type  of  Germans?  It  is 
a community  of  nature,  somehow.  Great  crowd  at 
lunch.” 

The  lunch  room  was  delightful,  for  its  bringing  us 
within  touch  and  speech  of  friends  from  a distance 
and  the  stranger-friends  from  abroad.  Not  long 
“ strangers.” 

“I  object  to  being  called  one  of  the  foreign  dele- 
gation,” said  Dr.  Arnott.  “Is  it  not  said:  ‘Ye  are 
no  more  strangers  and  foreigners  but  fellow-citizens 
with  the  saints?’  I claim  my  privileges.”  He  was 
hardly  ready  to  believe  that  my  sister  and  I were 
not  English  born. 

To  save  time,  a large  array  of  ready-filled  plates 
were  on  the  lunch-counter  when  we  came  in.  And 
after  the  first  day  or  two,  the  first  row  was  always 
just  saucers  of  ice-cream;  ‘‘it  was  so  popular  with 
the  foreigners.” 

“Oct.  7.  The  morning’s  delight  was  Dr.  Arnott ’s 
address — only  too  short;  clear,  sharp,  cogent,  sweet, 
witty,  and  so  true! 

“Oct.  8.  In  Hall — crowd  more  and  more — pressing 
upon  us  when  in  our  seats.  A fine  morning — though 
with  the  disturbance  I could  not  make  out  Prof. 
Dorner’s  address.  But  Prof.  Hitchcock’s  was  very 


480 


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fine — and  I was  interested  to  hear  Dr.  Witte  speak 
on  the  Prussian  laws  regarding  church  matters. 

“Oct.  g.  Lost  this  morning  at  the  Hall.  Dr. 
Christlieb  sent  a card  promising  to  call  on  Miss  Haines 
between  ten  and  eleven — and  she  being  obliged  to 
go  out  to  Mrs.  Dewitt’s  funeral,  asked  me  to  receive 
him.  So  I waited  in  the  parlour  till  eleven.  He  is  very 
nice  near  by — Said  the  German  students  listen  coolly 
and  critically  to  lectures — must;  they  are  not  allowed 
to  applaud.  Said  he  read  the  W.  W.  W.  at  eighteen 
or  nineteen  years  old — well  translated — ‘ I think  your 
German  dress  becomes  you.’  Can’t  come  to  dinner, 
so  many  engagements.  So  it  was  too  late  for  the 
Hall  when  he  went  away. 

“Oct.  io.  Evening  at  Mrs.  Dodge’s  to  meet  the 
whole  delegation.  Quite  pleasant.  Anna  and  I went 
in  one  carriage  alone — Miss  Haines  and  Mrs.  Baker 
followed  later.  We  had  talks  with  a great  many 
people.  Bishop  and  Mrs.  Cummins,  Gen.  Upton  and 
Mrs.  Martin,  Dr.  Taylor,  the  Freemantles, — and  others 
— and  lastly  a few  nice  words  with  Dr.  Christlieb. 
I said  I hoped  when  he  went  back  he  wrould  carry  a 
little  bit  of  love  to  America  back  with  him.  He  said 
smiling,  ‘0  yes!’  and  intimated  that  America  held 
out  temptations  to  a stay ; ‘ but  Germany  was  good 
too,  and  their  work  was  there.’  Said  he  would  like 
to  have  the  next  meeting  of  the  Alliance  in  Rome. 
I said,  ‘As  like  as  not!’  He  said  ‘Spurgeon  called 
Popery  the  devil’s  best  tool!’  and  he  said  it  with 
firing  eyes.  I told  him  I was  so  glad  of  his  wrords 
against  infidelity — I met  it  so  among  my  friends — 
nice  people,  good  people,  etc.  But  he  said  those 
people  would  not  hear  his  wrords.  He  said  little  was 
done  in  that  way  by  argument.  These  considera- 


Writing,  Writing,  481 

tions  and  arguments  served  to  strengthen  the  hands 
of  the  right;  put  weapons  in  their  hands;  but  the 
battle  after  all  must  be  otherwise  gained.  It  was 
good  to  have  the  chance  to  shake  hands  with  him 
so  once  more. 

Oct.  11.  Late;  Gen.  Upton  there  part  of  time. 
Mr.  Stevenson’s  speech  delightful;  dreadful  crowd  on 
the  stairs  in  afternoon,  but  we  got  in  at  last.  Final 
resolutions  and  speeches  of  thanks.  Very  interesting. 
The  Fisches  and  Miss  Haines  are  (by  plan)  to  come 
to  us  next  Friday.  So  w^e  must  go  back  to  be  ready 
for  them  and  come  down  again — if  all  is  well. 

“ Oct.  12.  Got  up  when  the  bells  were  ringing  for 
S.  S.  Of  course  breakfast  was  late.  With  Mrs.  Fisch 
and  A.  to  hear  Dr.  Arnott.  And  could  n’t — too  far 
back.  Communion — very  long — home  near  two.  No 
sleep.  To  Academy  of  Music  at  quarter  to  seven — 
wait  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Beautiful  sight,  espe- 
cially when  Sheshadri’s  white  turban  was  a centre 
spot.  One  thing  remains — Dr.  Christ lieb’s  words — 
‘there  remained  no  man  save  Jesus  only.’  They 
returned  to  me  in  the  night,  and  I took  them  to  my 
heart, — ‘Jesus  only.’  How  Anna  sobbed  while  he 
was  speaking!  And  I looked  through  my  glass  as 
best  I could.  Dr.  Adams’  prayer  lingered  till  the 
tension  was  trying.  Glad  to  have  it  over.” 

No  one,  I should  think,  could  ever  forget  that 
night.  There  had  been  ten  days  of  fair  October 
weather  without  doors,  and  of  the  communion  of 
saints  within.  The  500  delegates  from  over  all  the 
world;  some  of  them  scarce  able  to  speak  a word  of 
English,  yet  one  in  heart-loyalty  to  the  one  Great  King. 
With  some  of  them  we  had  spoken;  and  others — 
with  great  delight — we  had  heard  speak.  We  had 


482 


Susan  Warner 


mingled  with  them  day  by  day  in  the  lunch  room,  and 
learned  to  know  their  faces.  Now  it  was  over;  and 
this  Sunday-night  meeting  was  the  last.  Never 
again,  this  side  of  the  river,  would  those  five  hundred 
meet  the  many,  many  from  all  parts  of  America,  who 
had  thronged  to  bid  them  welcome.  Never  again! 
Tomorrow  they  would  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds; 
— each  to  his  work.  And  all  hearts  were  full. 

All  this  was  in  Dr.  Christlieb’s  face  and  voice. 
Standing  there,  in  that  deep  hush ; his  eyes  going  from 
place  to  place  in  the  great  assemblage,  with  few  (I 
forget  if  any)  opening  words,  he  took  out  his  little 
Bible  and  read  just  the  words  in  Mark  13:8,  “And 
suddenly,  when  they  looked  round  about,  they  saw 
no  man  any  more,  save  Jesus  only  with  themselves.” 
From  that  he  spoke.  Of  the  meetings  we  had  had, 
of  the  friendships  formed;  of  the  Cause,  the  Work, 
and  the  Master.  Then  of  the  parting — forever,  in 
this  world.  So  it  would  be,  for  the  most  of  us.  We 
little  guessed  to  how  many  the  quick  summons  to 
the  King’s  presence  would  come;  even  on  their  short 
way  across  the  earthly  seas. 

The  great  body  of  delegates  had  come  without  a 
single  mishap,  as  we  use  the  word.  Only  Carrasco 
had  been  delayed — “dear  Carrasco!”  as  we  heard 
him  called, — but  he  too  had  arrived;  and  was  to  set 
sail  again  speedily.  And  Dr.  Christlieb’s  speech  that 
night  touched  all  the  chords. 

“ Oct.  ij.  Early  breakfast  for  Dr.  and  Mme.  Fisch, 
setting  off  for  Washington.  Then  Miss  Haines  wanted 
A.  and  me  to  shew  some  of  the  classes  how  to  study 
the  Bible  Lesson  Book.  Busy  so  till  twelve.  Then 
lunch.  Then  very  tired.  Leaving  Anna,  put  on  my 
cloth  dress,  and  went  out  to  Putnam’s,  Tiffany,  Goupil. 


Writing,  Writing  483 

Holding  to  those  words  as  I went  along — ‘Jesus  only’ 
— and  feeling  very  sober;  yet  holding  to  them. 

“ Oct.  14.  Mrs.  Baker  went  this  morning.  So  our 
company  is  scattering.  What  a fortnight  it  has  been! 
I looked  in  at  the  open  door  of  Association  Hall 
yesterday  as  I passed,  and  glanced  up  at  the  stair- 
ways which  a day  or  two  ago  were  so  crowded— by 
such  pleasant  feet. 

“Oct.  15.  Miss  Haines  is  urging  us  to  take  rooms 
we  have  heard  of,  and  live  in  town  this  winter — prom- 
ises the  teaching  of  six  or  seven  Bible  classes.  A.  and 
I went  again  to  see  the  rooms  and  about  agreed  we 
would  take  them. 

“ Oct.  17.  At  home.  Another  exquisite  day — a 
little  fresher  and  without  haze.  I had  to  put  the 
white  room  in  order — did  n’t  do  much  more,  but 
dress;  and  tired  at  that.  Earlier  than  I had  expected 

they  all  came,  with  Mrs.  Baker,  and  Dr. whom 

I did  not  want  and  had  refrained  from  asking.  I took 
them  to  Fort  Con. — terribly  rough,  the  woods  are  so 
encumbered.  Beautiful  luncheon — Albert  and  Jim 
both  waiting.  Then  the  unwilling  farewells — very 
unwilling  on  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Fisch’s  part.  They  were 
full  of  delight  with  the  place  and  the  day — and  I 
think  others  found  it  delightful. 

“Oct.  18.  Well,  it  seems  as  if  the  ‘Evangelical 
Alliance’  was  ended  at  last,  now  we  have  bid  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Fisch  good-bye.  Dr.  Fisch  said  he  would  pray 
for  me  every  day — and  they  both  asked  for  my  prayers. 

“ How  good  the  Lord  is  to  us!  and  how  I love  him!” 
she  writes  another  day. 

In  town.  The  Bible  lessons  with  the  school-girls 
were  a great  joy  to  her;  and  a blessing  seemed  to 
rest  on  them. 


484 


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“One  of  the  teachers  came,  and  with  tears  and 
much  emotion  thanked  me  and  said  it  had  done  her 
good.  I took  her  in  my  arms  and  we  kissed  each 
other — I was  greatly  delighted.” 

11  Nov.  6.  Have  an  uncommon  feeling  of  being 
Christ’s  servant  and  only  that  since  I came  to  town 
this  time;  I suppose  these  classes  to  teach  may  have 
somewhat  to  do  with  the  feeling.  So  I lie  down  and 
rise  up. 

“ Sunday , Nov.  g.  Bible  class  at  evening — several 
girls  coming  about  me  afterwards  for  earnest  talk — 
I felt  much  encouraged. 

“O  what  nice  classes  of  girls!  and  a good  deal  of 
serious  attention.  But  I need  to  be  on  fire  to  teach 
them” — she  writes. 

“ Dec.  jo.  Our  room  is  nice  now.  And  work  is 
so  sweet.  But  the  thing  is,  to  keep  my  heart  filled 
and  satisfied  only  on  God — not  even  on  his  word,  but 
on  himself. 

“Dec.  ji.  It  is  sweet,  this  last  day  of  the  year; 
with  the  gifts  and  pleasure  and  stir  of  the  preparing 
and  finding  and  purposing  and  expecting  them.  For 
I am  a child  yet.  Sweet,  in  peace,  and  comfort,  and 
quiet;  alone!  For  nobody  touches  us.  Even  so,  it 
is  sweet  to  be  alone  with  God.  He  is  enough.  And 
our  expectation  now  is  from  him.  How  gracious  he 
has  been  to  us  all  this  year!  what  a year  of  blessing 
it  has  been!  But,  oh  Lord,  come  to  my  heart  thyself 
and  take  all. 

(Later.)  Dear  Miss  Haines,  though  in  Savannah, 
has  ordered  us  a lovely  cake,  and  Norris  brought  it; 
one  of  the  most  prettily  ornamented  I ever  saw.  So 
our  want  for  tomorrow  is  made  up.  We  wanted  cake 
for  our  table,  and  Anna  and  Aunty  were  talking  about 


Writing,  Writing  485 

making  some.  Aunty  is  roasting  a turkey  tonight 
to  have  cold.  I wish  I knew  people  to  send  comfort 
to.  Our  box  to  Wisconsin  is  to  send;  and  Mr. 
Fliedner  is  on  my  heart ; but  private  instances  I know 
little  of.  Well,  this  cake  from  Miss  Haines  touches 
us,  with  a soft  brush  of  sympathy;  living  contact 
there  is  none.  The  world  is  on  one  side,  and  we  on 
another — with  our  Lord.” 

The  journal  ends  abruptly  at  this  point.  If  later 
ones  were  written,  they  must  have  been  destroyed. 
I seem  to  remember  her  saying  one  day  that  she  “was 
going  to  burn  up  things,”  and  I know  she  was  handling 
the  files  of  old  letters  in  the  house,  reading,  burning, 
and  tying  up. 

It  was  a beautiful  winter  in  town;  full  of  work; 
and  with  Bible  readings  in  our  rooms  that  seemed 
a delight  to  all  who  came.  And  yet  those  closing 
words  were  true,  we  were  alone ; as  doubtless  workers — 
and  out  of  the  gay  whirl — must  often  be.  How  true 
Paul’s  words: 

“As  unknown  and  yet  well  known,” — “as  poor, 
yet  making  many  rich;  as  having  nothing,  and  yet 
possessing  all  things.” 

And  the  yet  older  words  of  Moses : 

“ Israel  shall  dwell  in  safety  alone.” 

It  was  best  for  us. 

My  sister’s  frequent  absences  from  home,  and  the 
daily  letters  then  to  me,  keep  up  the  life  and  char- 
acter record  fairly  well.  The  same  love  of  truth — 
and  of  the  Truth;  the  same  eager  zeal  for  the  Lord’s 
kingdom;  the  same  impatience  of  half-way  work  and 
uncertain  trumpets.  Only  the  old  ease-loving  shews 
rather  less  than  more,  amid  the  failing  strength  and 
constant  pressure.  My  Love! — how  she  toiled  on; 


486 


Susan  Warner 


bidding  nerves  and  weakness  bide  their  time.  How 
fragrant  her  memory  is,  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew 
her.  “Her  wonderful  smile”;  the  shining  of  her  face; 
the  unswerving,  open-air  truth  of  all  she  said  and 
did.  The  faith  and  love  that  by  their  own  vividness, 
witnessed  for  the  glad  realities  of  which  her  heart 
was  full. 

“Well,  beloved” — she  writes  from  town — “what 
with  Classes,  Bible  readings,  and  talks  at  home,  I 
am  busy!” 

The  readings — sometimes  out  of  New  York — were 
everywhere  much  enjoyed.  Enjoyed  by  herself,  too; 
yet  slowly  she  was  doing  too  much  and  losing  strength. 
It  seemed  good  for  her  to  be  away  from  home,  and 
out  of  its  demands  and  labours, — and  yet  sometimes, 
I question  if  it  were  not  really  a mistake.  Do  sisters 
take  partings  so  in  these  days,  I wonder? 

‘ ‘ My  Darling  Annie : 

“It  wasn’t  very  ‘cheerful’  either  to  me — looking 
back  at  the  Island  and  you,  and  seeing  your  dark 
little  figure  go  slowly,  slowly  up  the  path, — disap- 
pearing and  reappearing,  but  so  slowly.  Did  n’t  I 
know  that  you  missed  Delly?  I looked  and  looked 
and  looked  back  at  you.  Mr.  Adams  steered  all 
wrong  and  I did  not  know  it — and  the  tears  ran  down 
and  dropped — and  some  I caught  and  stopped  from 
running  dowm.  I could  only  prostrate  myself  at  the 
feet  of  our  King,  and  beseech  him  to  pour  down  com- 
forts and  the  treasures  of  his  riches  upon  you — which 
can  make  up  for  all  things.” 

Further  on  the  letter  ends — . 

“I  spent  then — 0 how  much  time,  trying  to  find 
a nice  book  to  send  you,  to  keep  you  from  being  so 
lonely.  Finally  ordered  ‘Robert  Falconer.’  Please 


Writing,  Writing,  487 

don’t  turn  up  your  nose — and  do  read  it  carefully — 
it ’s  splendid.” 

But  she  took  the  fun  of  things,  too,  as  she  went 
along.  From  a certain  well-off  country  house  she 
tells  of  the  dinner — “soup,  and  turkey,  and  cranberry 
sauce,  and  mince  pie,  and  nuts,  and  raisins.”  Then 
of  her  rest  and  nap  upstairs,  when  guests  were  gone, 

and  after  tea,  “at  which  was  present  a Miss  , 

a cousin,  my  dear,  we  talked  cats  for  a large  part  of 
the  evening ! ! Once  or  twice  we  got  upon  something 
more  interesting — but  the  cats  were  unfailing  in  mate- 
rial for  conversation.  I sat  back  and  smiled  and  put 
in  a word  or  two  about  dogs,  now  and  then.” 

“Don’t  work  hard,”  she  admonished  me.  “Don’t 
fidget — as  if  you  ever  did.” 

Again — “Thank  the  Lord  for  a quiet  journey”  (to 
New  York)  “and  a kindly  abiding  place.  And  for 
everything!  ” 

That  spring  of  ’74  she  remained  in  town  when  the 
rest  of  us  had  gone  home;  finishing  the  work  with  her 
classes,  and  every  now  and  then — sometimes  in  the 
city,  sometimes  elsewhere — having  a Bible  reading 
with  older  people.  She  stayed  with  different  friends 
the  while, — most  often,  with  Miss  Haines.  Once  when 
established  in  “No.  7,” — a sort  of  annex  to  the  school, 
and  across  the  street,  her  free  independence  and  New 
England  “faculty”  had  full  play. 

“ April  27.  My  darling: 

“I  am  up  here  in  my  nest-house,  it  seems  to  me. 
I have  not  left  Mrs.  Prentiss,  and  perhaps  cannot 
well  till  Saturday,  if  we  are  to  go  on  our  Morristown 
Mission.  Meanwhile,  I am  in  clover  up  here — all  by 
myself.  I got  a drop-light  last  night  from  the  other 
house,  and  I had  a sample  of  tea  in  my  bag;  that 


488 


Susan  Warner 


was  all  my  provision.  But  let  me  go  further 
back. 

“Miss  Haines  had  said  she  would  have  my  box  and 
trunk  carried  over  here.  I came  away  from  Sixty  - 
first  Street  about  three  p.m.,  for  I wanted  to  do  some 
studying.  I w’as  not  greatly  surprised  nor  much  dis- 
appointed to  find  neither  trunk  nor  box.  However, 
I must  get  at  my  books.  So  down  my  three  pairs 
of  stairs  I went  and  over  to  No.  9.  Descended  to  the 
lower  story  where  my  book  box  was.  Got  out  Alford 
and  the  Jew  book,  and  Keil,  and  came  back  and 
climbed  my  stairs  to  my  fourth  story.  Had  lit  my 
fire,  which  was  already  laid.  Drew  out  my  table, 
threw  open  my  blinds,  found  I had  the  wrong  volume 
of  Alford!  Well — I went  over  again — and  got  not 
only  Alford,  but  my  gas  furnace,  saucepan,  and  tea 
pot.  Then  I studied — or  went  over  the  notes  of 
Alford,  which  were  not  what  I wanted.  Finally, 
much  tired,  I lay  down  at  a quarter  past  five.  I got 
a nice  nap  and  rest.  Then  tea  and  class. 

“After  class  Miss  Haines  kept  me  talking  and  hear- 
ing about  Mme.  and  her  affairs — till  towards 

ten.  Had  a nice  night,  but  woke  up  about  three, 
I guess,  and  so  in  want  of  food  that  I did  not  know 
scarcely  how  to  wTait  till  morning.  Finally,  got  to 
sleep.  Waked  for  good  and  got  up  some  quarter 
after  five.  Got  dressed,  and  then  what?  Couldn’t 
wait  for  breakfast.  I put  my  cloak  over  my  shoulders, 
and  drew  the  hood  over  my  head,  and  went  across  to 
No.  9,  intending  to  steal  some  biscuits  and  sugar. 
But  nobody  answered  my  ring,  and  I did  not  repeat 
it.  Instead  I trotted  round  the  comer  (the  morning 
air  was  sweet  and  lovely)  to  the  little  fruit  and  gro- 
cery store  you  wot  of;  locked  up.  Doubt — see  fruit 


489 


Writing,  Writing 

over  the  way — perhaps  they  have  biscuits — went 
over.  No,  no  biscuits.  Bought  a banana — saw  the 
little  opposite  store  was  open — so  cross  to  it  again 
and  get  half  a pound  of  sugar  and  ditto  biscuits. 
Home  and  mounted  my  stairs  and  made  my  tea;  but 
the  biscuits  were  macaroons ! Eat  one,  and  my 
banana,  and  wrote  till  a little  after  seven.  Since 
breakfast  I have  finished  my  task,  or  four  pages  at 
least,  and  given  lessons  to  your  two  little  classes, 
and  here  I am.” 

She  used  to  say,  “Bible  readings  rest  one.”  And 
so  it  certainly  seemed,  for  her.  Or  rather,  the  joyful 
excitement  kept  her  up  for  the  time.  She  could  work 
in  that  line,  as  in  no  other. 

“My  dear  Darling,”  she  writes  another  day,  “I 
have  got  an  hour  ago  or  so,  and  digested  partly,  your 
two  notes  of  Saturday  and  Monday.  Somehow  they 
trouble  me.  There  is  a minor  tone  in  them,  or  a 
tired  tone,  is  it?  And  you  have  not  been  well — and 
you  and  Aunty  are  burdened  with  all  this  moving 
business.  How  I have  felt  just  like  flying  to  you 
since  I read  your  letters.  And  yet,  my  reason  does 
not  say  ‘go.’  I am  good  for  so  little,  I could  do  so 
little;  and  to  have  one  or  two  of  my  sick  days  on 
your  hands,  would  hardly  comfort  you  much;  and 
here  I can  do,  and  am  doing  work,  important  enough. 
. . . Would  you  like  to  have  me  come?  Telegraph 
and  I’ll  come  at  once,  if  the  good  of  my  coming 
overbalances  the  evil.”  The  letter  ends: 

“O  if  I could  see  you  and  hear  you  say  you  feel 
tolerably  well,  and  not  tired  to  death!  The  Lord 
bless  thee  and  keep  thee!  The  Lord  make  his  face 
to  shine  upon  thee.  The  Lord  lift  up  his  countenance 
upon  thee  and  give  thee  peace!  And  the  Lord  bless 


490 


Susan  Warner 


all  our  movings  and  doings.  Certainly  he  has  seemed 
to  point  them  out. 

“Give  dear  love  to  Aunty  and  father,  and  remember 
me  to  Janetta  and  Albert.  Don’t  worry  (but  you 
don’t)  about  anything. 

Ever  thine,  Susan.” 

So,  eagerly,  uninterruptedly,  work  went  on;  and 
failing  strength  was  bid  to  wait.  What  I might  call 
the  second  group  of  her  books,  came  one  by  one  into 
line.  For  the  most  part,  they  were  true  stories;  the 
few  brief  old-time  facts  given  her  by  some  friend, — 
then  dressed  and  sorted  and  filled  out  to  suit  her 
fancy.  Many  of  them  came  from  a lady  who  had 
been  the  trusted  custodian  of  many  a family  secret, 
and  in  some  cases  had  seen  that  of  which  she  told, — 
as  for  instance,  the  watch-chain  in  “The  End  of  a 
Coil.”  I think  “Diana”  was  the  first  of  these  “true” 
stories.  Then  followed  “Stephen,  M.  D.,”  “Nobody,” 
“End  of  a Coil,”  “ My  Desire,”  “The  Red  Wallflower,” 
etc.,  etc.  During  this  last  decade  also  (I  think)  were 
written  the  stories  on  the  Lord’s  prayer,  and  “Pine 
Needles.”  Between  whiles  she  worked  at  a collection 
of  Bible  “Ladders,” — studying  German  with  all  her 
might,  for  rest.  Letters,  business  demands,  filled  up 
the  crevices, — with  social  claims  and  perplexing  busi- 
ness questions.  Only  her  strong  will  power,  and  her 
unfailing  trust,  held  up  the  tired  hands.  For  again 
the  world  was  changing  fast,  for  us. 

The  year  1875  saw  first  t>reak  in  our  small 
number.  My  dear  father  went  home:  with  a smile 
remaining  on  the  blessed  face,  that  made  me  jealous. 
It  was  so  plainly  not  for  us — not  towards  us;  but  for 
the  welcoming  faces  on  the  other  shore. 

And  still  work  went  on,  because  it  must. 


Writing,  Writing  491 

My  sister  kept  the  copyright  of  none  of  her  later 
books,  because  we  could  not  wait  for  the  slow  pub- 
lishing returns.  Each  story  was  sold  as  soon  as 
written, — sometimes,  indeed,  by  instalments.  Very 
unwillingly  we  did  it,  but  there  seemed  no  other  way. 

I could  fill  pages  with  words  written  and  printed 
about  these  last  stories:  they  come  to  me  frequently 
even  now.  On  the  whole,  I think  “My  Desire”  is 
perhaps  oftenest  heard  from;  but  this  is  pretty  about 
“Diana.” — A young  married  woman  who  had  fallen 
out  with  her  husband  and  left  her  home,  somehow 
got  hold  of  the  book.  And  when  she  had  read  it 
she  rose  up  and  said:  “I  will  go  home  now,  and  take 
up  my  duties.  ” — And  she  did.  Mrs.  Browning  in 
a letter  to  Miss  Mitford,  Aug.  20,  21,  1853,  speaks 
of  “Queechy”  thus:  . . . “Tell  me  if  you  have 

read  ‘ Queechy,’  the  American  book — novel — by  Eliza- 
beth Wetherell?  I think  it  very  clever  and  charac- 
teristic. Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  scarcely  exceeds  it, 
after  all  the  trumpets.  ” 1 

And  now  our  life  changed  in  another  respect.  We 
spent  no  more  winters  in  New  York,  and  never  but 
once  again  at  the  Island;  we  were  but  three  now. 
And  so,  as  the  days  of  1875  drew  near  the  shortest 
and  coldest,  we  rented  part  of  a house  in  a village 
a couple  of  miles  below  West  Point;  took  furniture, 
servants,  and  the  pony  chaise — and  again  went  to 
work.  And  soon  new  work  came. 

My  sister  had  been  having  Bible  readings,  with 
the  chaplain’s  wife  and  other  ladies  at  West  Point, 
and  I suppose  they  were  talked  about.  By  degrees, 
the  talk  and  comment,  perhaps  only  the  bare  facts 
of  the  case — found  their  way  into  the  cadet  barracks. 

‘ Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  ii. , 134. 


492 


Susan  Warner 


And  as  the  “one-man  power”  stirs  most  things  in 
this  world,  one  Christian  cadet  took  it  up.  He  was 
a Baptist,  from  Maine.  A note  from  him  to  the  wife 
of  the  Superintendent  (I  think)  brought  out  one  from 
her  to  my  sister. 

One  late  afternoon,  I passed  through  our  sitting- 
room,  where  my  sister  was  on  a couch  by  the  fire, 
alone  in  the  dusky  light,  and  she  called  me. 

“See  this  letter,  Annie,”  she  said.  “The  Cadets 
want  me  to  have  a Bible  reading  for  them.  Do  you 
think  I ought?  Do  you  think  I can?” — Something 
like  that. 

“If  you  are  strong  enough,”  I said.  “It  has  come 
without  your  asking.” 

“So  I thought, — so  I feel,”  she  answered.  “Of 
course  it  would  be  the  greatest  possible  pleasure.  If 
I am  fit  for  it!” 

Of  that — in  her  sense — I had  no  doubt;  and  I 
think  her  joy  in  the  idea  soon  swept  all  questions 
from  her  mind,  leaving  only  the  most  humble  and 
absolute  dependence  on  the  Lord  Jesus.  He  who  had 
sent  her  the  work,  unsought.  And  as  she  did  every- 
thing else,  so  this.  Throwing  herself  into  it  with  the 
most  eager  zeal  and  love.  The  class  were  to  meet 
her  in  the  Cadet  Chapel,  in  the  afternoon  of  Sunday 

The  first  day,  there  was  a very  large  gathering, 
curiosity  helping  on  the  numbers.  After  that,  it 
varied  from  week  to  week,  as  must  be  always,  I sup- 
pose; especially  among  Cadets,  where  guard  duty 
sometimes  interferes;  and  where  Sunday  is  the  free 
day  for  seeing  friends 

The  work  was  a very  great  joy  to  her.  Sometimes, 
as  years  went  on,  with  those  occasional  questionings 
which  I suppose  all  teachers  know;  ready  to  measure 


Writing,  Writing  493 

her  own  zeal  and  faithfulness  by  the  size  of  the  class. 

“Annie,  it  seems  as  if  there  ought  to  be  more  cadets 
who  would  want  to  come  and  study  the  Bible  with 
me,”  she  would  say.  “I  think  there  would  be,  if 
I made  it  more  interesting.  It  must  be  my  fault.” 

Nobody  else  would  have  said  that;  the  tokens  of 
their  love  and  trust  were  many.  Coming  back  from 
the  class  some  cold  winter’s  day,  she  would  tell  me 
how  carefully  they  put  on  her  wraps,  fastening  the 
ulster  buttons,  guarding  her  to  the  carriage.  At 
home,  in  the  summer,  they  met  in  our  tent  near  the 
house,  the  forage  caps  tossed  out  upon  the  grass;  the 
gray  figures  in  all  sorts  of  positions  in  and  out 
the  tent.  Strong,  hardy,  wiry,  as  they  all  were, — 
and  she  so  frail,  so  delicate,  but  with  a light  on  her 
face  which  had  as  yet  touched  none  of  theirs.  Surely 
she  was  one  to  look  at,  as  Bible  in  hand,  she  went 
out  of  our  old  front  door,  and  down  the  few  steps  to 
the  tent.  A vision  of  full  consecration, — grave,  ten- 
der, eager,  joyful.  Might  she  but  win  them  all  for 
Christ ! 

Tokens  of  her  influence  were  not  wanting.  One 
man,  suddenly  thrown  into  a tangle  of  doubts,  ques- 
tions, difficulties,  said  to  himself:  “I  will  just  write 
to  Miss  Warner.”  And  in  the  strength  of  that  con- 
sultation, I think  he  found  his  way  out  into  the  light. 

Two  others,  under  the  same  swreet  influence  of  her 
precept  and  example,  set  up  a temperance  society 
in  the  Corps ; standing  alone,  at  first,  those  two.  And 
I can  judge  a little  of  their  love  for  her,  by  their  kind- 
ness to  me,  since  she  has  gone. 

Many  of  the  class  indeed,  I knew  only  by  name; 
but  they  are  all  a sort  of  heart -legacy  to  me.  And 
sometimes,  turning  from  name  to  name  in  the  Army 


494 


Susan  Warner 


List,  I remember  her  words  of  description  and  interest, 
and  think  how  surprised  these  sunburned  bearded 
men  would  be,  if  they  could  know  what  longing 
prayers  for  them  all,  are  in  my  heart  too.  For  as 
she  gave  me  descriptions  and  details  about  those  I 
did  not  know,  the  mere  names  came  to  be  bound 
up  with  her  own,  never  to  be  separated.  How 
sorry  she  was,  when  some  one  of  them  was  “found 
deficient” — not  in  character,  but  in  mathematics — 
or  French.  And  in  those  summer  days  when  one  of 
the  class  was  drowned  at  Gee’s  Point,  and  the  row 
boats  went  searching,  searching  up  and  dowm  the  fair 
river,  we  all  wTatched  and  grieved  together. 

But,  “There  arose  another  king,  that  knew  not 
Joseph.” 

It  is  always  hard,  I suppose,  for  a new  comer  to 
get,  as  we  say,  “the  size”  of  things,  at  first;  and  so, 
when  one  year  there  came  a new  Commandant,  he 
set  himself  at  once  against  the  class.  It  was  said, 
that  his  own  belief  in  the  eternal  truths  of  earth  and 
heaven,  was  utterly  wanting.  However  that  might  be, 
he  persuaded  the  Superintendent  that  “the  Cadets 
had  all  the  religious  teaching  they  needed,”  at  the 
Point;  and  all  permits  to  cross  to  the  Island  were 
recalled.  In  vain  the  class  petitioned;  first  classmen 
personally;  asking,  explaining,  and  urging;  the  word 
had  gone  forth,  and  would  not  be  changed!  And  to 
meet  them  only  for  the  three  or  four  winter  months 
when  we  were  on  the  West  Point  side,  could  not  keep 
the  class  together;  it  was  broken  up. 

Of  course  those  two  mistaken  officers  never  guessed 
how  cruel  they  wrere ; the  sort  of  heart-break  that  came 
to  my  sister,  cut  short  in  the  beloved  work  for  her 
Master,  never  entered  their  wildest  imaginations. 


Writing,  Writing  495 

And  as  little,  let  me  say,  could  they  measure  her 
eager  longing  over  the  young  lives  fitting  out  there, 
for  the  great  battle  of  life.  They  did  not  know. 

This  did  not  mend  the  case,  for  her;  and  many  of 
the  bright  days  of  that  fall  were  spent  in  illness; 
brought  on,  chiefly,  I think,  by  the  sorrow  and  dis- 
appointment about  her  class.  Lost  ground  never 
regained. 

I do  not  now  remember  what  book  was  in  hand 
that  year.  She  had  taken  up  the  plan  of  reading 
the  stories  to  us,  before  they  were  printed.  We  had 
this  delight  with  “Stephen,  M.  D.,”  with  “The  End 
of  a Coil,”  and  “The  Red  Wallflower.”  The  last 
one  she  wrote  was  “Daisy  Plains,” — and  it  was  left 
unfinished. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE  WINTER  OF  1884-1885 

I can  look  back  now,  and  see  not  only  my  sister’s 
want  of  strength,  but  also  the  unlikeness  to  herself, 
which  marked  those  winter  days.  But  I was  under 
great  pressure  of  heart  and  hands;  and  what  I half 
felt,  I could  not  always  stop  to  reason  out. 

Our  dear  Aunt  Fanny  was  a great  and  constant 
sufferer;  spending  the  days  in  her  wheeled  chair,  and 
needing  help  for  every  change  of  posture;  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  I was  called  upon  for  these.  Then 
I was  housekeeper,  and  head  cook  for  the  failing 
appetites;  trying  to  write  all  I could,  as  well;  but 
often  obliged  to  take  the  precious  early  morning  hour 
to  study  out  the  lesson  for  my  own  Sunday  class. 
The  only  hour  of  the  day  that  was  truly  mine. 

Her  own  work  on  “Daisy  Plains”  went  steadily 
forward.  But  her  mood  was  often  nervous,  worried, 
not  like  herself.  I am  ready  to  say  now,  with  a half- 
recognized  thought  of  what  might  come. 

She  could  not  bear  to  have  me  out  of  her  sight; 
would  hardly  let  me  go  to  a church  “sociable” — or 
to  drink  tea  with  some  close-at-hand  neighbour.  She 
never  tried  to  keep  me  from  my  Sunday  class;  but 
always  watched  me  from  the  door,  and  opened  it 
when  I came  back.  And  often  there  passed  across 
her  face  a sudden  swift  shadow,  that  chilled  me  like 
the  touch  of  ice. 


496 


Latest  photograph  of  Susan  Warner 
From  a Photograph  by  VV.  Kurtz 


ttyWtRS^Of^pS 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885 


497 


I went  to  town  for  a few  days,  just  before  Christ- 
mas; and  she  wrote  me  the  most  anxious  little  letter 
about  my  journey  home;  not  to  come  if  the  day  was 
too  cold.  And  when  I came,  she  was  watching  I 
suppose,  and  opened  the  door,  before  any  one  else 
could  get  there,  and  before  I was  out  of  the  carriage. 

She  had  come  from  her  writing,  evidently,  the  pen 
was  in  her  hand ; the  little  pen-holder  still  pinned  to 
her  dress.  But  there  was  no  smile  on  her  face;  rather, 
that  nameless  shadow.  When  she  saw  me,  she  threw 
up  her  hand,  as  one  who  says: 

“At  last!” 

I had  hunted  up  for  her  a very  warm,  gay  wrapper, 
to  wear  at  the  early  morning  writing.  But  when  I 
gave  it  to  her,  Christmas  day,  the  shadow  came  again. 

“It  is  beautiful!”  she  said.  “But  when  shall  I 
ever  wear  it?” 

‘ ‘ Why , every  morning, ’ ’ I said . “At  your  work ’ ’ — 
but  she  never  put  it  on. 

A week  later — on  New  Year’s  Day,  I think  it  was, 
we  had  had  a small  rush  of  callers,  from  the  Post. 
Sitting  at  dinner  afterwards,  I laughed  and  said: 

“We  are  getting  to  be  the  fashion.” 

My  sister  said  nothing,  but  looked  across  the  table 
at  me  with  a face  so  grave,  so  sad,  that  I was 
almost  hurt,  wondering  if  she  thought  me  frivolous. 

So  when  we  took  a carriage  and  drove  up  to  West 
Point  to  pay  visits,  she  spoke  like  this: 

“We  will  do  it  this  once.  We  will  go  together 
while  we  can.” 

At  one  of  the  houses,  that  day,  an  oldish  lady  who 
had  known  little,  I should  think,  of  Christian  love 
and  light,  was  berating  the  world  and  life,  half  in 
hopelessness,  half  complaint:  my  sister  roused  up, 


32 


498 


Susan  Warner 


with  one  of  her  brilliant  looks.  Leaning  forward, 
she  said  with  eager  persuasion : 

“Dear  Mrs. , there  is  something  better.  Let 

Jesus  make  you  glad!” 

The  sudden  illumination  of  face,  the  sweetness  of 
the  tone,  cannot  be  described.  I never  saw  nor  heard 
anything  like  it.  There  was  no  shadow  between  her 
and  the  Lord. 

But  on  one  of  the  last  seemingly  well  days,  which 
an  old  friend  had  come  to  spend  with  us,  after  dinner 
my  sister  disappeared ; and  was  gone  so  long,  that  I 
went  to  seek  her.  She  was  upstairs,  calmly  finishing 
off  some  white  wTork,  and  did  not  want  to  come  down 
again  to  see  her  guest. 

She  had  been  amusing  herself  that  winter  with 
mounting  photographs;  had  learned  to  do  it  excel- 
lently well;  and  just  now  she  had  a quantity — all 
pressed  and  dry — which  I had  never  seen.  And  that 
same  Saturday  evening  of  the  last  winter  day,  she 
seemed  to  have  set  her  heart  on  shewing  them  all  to 
me,  as  soon  as  tea  was  over. 

I had  been  very  busy,  and  was  very  tired;  and 
Sunday  would  claim  all  my  strength.  I would  fain 
have  seen  a few  of  the  photographs,  and  let  the  rest 
wait  over.  But  she  was  plainly  so  eager  to  shew 
them  every  one  to  me  herself,  and  then , that  I gave 
way,  and  said  not  a word  of  protest.  Stretching  my 
eyes  that  they  might  not  go  to  sleep,  enjoying  and 
praising  as  well  as  I could. 

So  came  on  the  first  of  March;  winter  had  gone, 
for  her;  and  the  everlasting  spring  was  close  at  hand. 

It  was  Sunday,  cold  and  gray,  with  falling  sleet 
and  rain.  But  she  would  go  down  first,  that  morning, 
to  make  our  early  fire;  and  later  on,  insisted  that  I 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885 


499 


should  lie  down  and  take  some  rest  before  going  off 
to  my  Bible  Class ; following  me  upstairs  herself,  and 
arranging  the  covers  with  anxious,  tender  care.  Then, 
later,  watched  me  from  the  door,  and  met  me  there 
when  I came  home.  I am  not  sure  if  it  was  on  this 
Sunday — or  another — that  she  asked  what  was  the 
lesson ; and  then  in  a moment  said : 

“Well,  could  you  make  it  tell?” — or  “did  you” — 
I am  not  sure  which  word  she  used. 

Since  our  dear  Aunt  Fanny  had  been  so  disabled 
and  suffering,  it  had  been  my  habit  to  read  aloud  to 
them  many  hours  every  day;  and  for  Sunday  nights, 
I chose  mission  books  and  papers.  The  reading  that 
evening — the  last  we  were  to  spend  together — was 
long  and  very  sweet.  Bits  of  missionary  news,  de- 
scriptions, rejoicings,  from  one  field  and  another;  so 
the  reading  went  on;  and  at  the  end,  when  we  must 
stop  and  go  to  bed,  my  sister  spoke  a warm,  strong, 
satisfied  word  of  pleasure,  something  like  this : 

“That  is  what  I call  good.” 

She  had  complained  a little  of  aching  limbs  for 
the  last  day  or  two;  and  I had  said,  “Do  write  to 
Dr.  Mitchell!”  But  she  did  not;  passing  it  by,  as 
one  does  pass  things;  and  that  Monday  morning  we 
sat  writing  together,  as  usual.  Then,  also  as  usual, 
she  went  upstairs  for  rest  and  a nap. 

Some  one  came,  to  whom  a small  cheque  was  due, 
and  very  unwillingly,  and  after  waiting  some  time, 
I woke  her  up. 

She  came  down  with  a sort  of  physical  impatience. 

“I  must  have  some  place,”  she  said,  “where  I can 
work  and  rest  and  not  be  disturbed.  I cannot  be 
interrupted  so.” 

She  was  not  well  at  our  early  dinner, — did  not 


5°° 


Susan  Warner 


relish  it;  yet  sat  peacefully  enough  through  the  after- 
noon, busy  about  some  work,  while  Aunt  Fanny  in 
her  turn  read  aloud  to  us  from  her  wheeled  chair, 
as  she  was  very  fond  of  doing  when  she  could.  The 
scene  is  very  clear  to  me;  the  dear  reader  in  her  chair, 
with  the  light  resting  on  her  white  hair  and  whiter 
cap;  my  sister  in  a sort  of  camp  chair,  low  seated 
and  high  backed,  and  draped  with  a thick  white 
goat-skin  rug. 

So  we  sat,  for  the  last  time,  till  the  afternoon  faded, 
and  it  grew  too  dark  to  read,  and  six  o’clock  drew  on, 
The  Lord’s  eyes  must  have  been  very  pitiful  for  me, 
that  afternoon. 

The  hours  had  been  so  sweet!  I think  there  was 
a general  breath  of  pleasure  and  regret,  as  the  work 
was  folded,  and  the  book-mark  put  in  place.  It  has 
never  been  moved  since  then. 

Tea — rather  more  substantial  than  sometimes,  fol- 
lowed ; much  enjoyed  by  my  sister.  She  said  it  “made 
up  for  the  dinner.” 

Then  the  wheeled  chair  was  rolled  back  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  the  next  thing  in  order  was  the 
upstairs  work  of  thread  and  tooth-brush.  Generally 
we  went  up  together.  But  I was  busy  just  then  with 
Aunt  Fanny’s  chair  and  cushions;  and  when  at  the 
door  my  sister  turned  and  asked  if  I were  coming 
too,  I answered  no.  She  lingered  a little, — I looked 
at  her — then  at  the  helpless  one  in  the  chair — and 
did  not  go;  saying,  perhaps,  “directly,” — or  some 
such  word,  but  with  a painful  feeling  of  being  drawn 
two  ways.  And  I know  not  how  many  minutes  had 
passed,  when  the  door  opened  again,  and  there  stood 
our  two  women,  one  behind  the  other. 

“Miss  Susan  is  sick.” 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885 


501 


“Sick!” 

Leaving  one  with  Aunt  Fanny,  and  saying  no  word 
to  alarm  her,  I went  up  the  stairs  to  my  sister’s  room. 

She  was  on  the  bed,  with  a terrible  look  of  suffering 
on  her  face — a terrible  pain  in  the  back  of  her  head. 

It  had  seized  her  suddenly,  she  could  just  say;  and 
she  had  lain  down, — then  had  to  get  up  again  to  ring 
for  the  women,  and  that  made  her  worse. 

A few  minutes  of  desperate  illness  went  by;  and 
then,  before  we  could  do  much  or  try  much,  my  dar- 
ling lapsed  into  a state  of  unconsciousness,  beyond 
our  reach. 

“Oh  Janetta!”  I cried,  to  the  older  experience 
with  me  there,  “is  this  the  way  it  is  going  to  be?” 
And  she  answered : 

“I  fear  it  is,  Miss  Anna.” 

They  tell  of  deadly  wounds  which  the  sufferer  does 
not  feel;  benumbed  and  dazed  and  but  half  alive; 
such  was  I then. 

After  a time,  when  all  we  could  think  of  had  been 
done,  I went  down  to  Aunt  Fanny,  and  saw  her 
brought  upstairs  and  safe  in  bed;  telling  her  the  least 
I could;  then  back  to  my  silent  watch. 

Our  own  doctor’s  house  was  miles  away;  and  so, 
in  the  extremity  of  need,  one  of  the  village  doctors 
was  called  in.  I was  too  stunned  and  numb  to 
really  feel,  at  the  time;  but  I cannot  think  of  that 
man,  even  now,  without  a hot  stir  of  indignation. 
He  read  the  case  well;  what  he  said  would  be,  came 
to  pass  very  exactly;  but  no  weather  probabilities 
could  have  been  told  over  with  more  likeness  to  ice 
and  stone.  No  word  of  possible  hope,  nor  the  faintest 
touch  of  sympathy  or  interest.  Fie  read  off  the  case, 
made  his  remarks,  and  went  away;  not  giving  me 


5°2 


Susan  Warner 


even  one  small  hint  of  anything  I might  do,  to  help 
or  comfort  my  darling. 

In  the  depth  of  desolation  where  I was  this  mat- 
tered not  much.  I think  I knew  all  he  could  tell  me, 
before  he  spoke;  yet  the  rasping  speech  was  a little 
added  misery. 

So  the  night  wore  on.  Janetta  waked  or  slum- 
bered in  her  chair;  I sat  by  the  bedside  with  strained, 
wide  open  eyes.  But  those  other  eyes  did  not  open, — 
there  was  no  sign  of  consciousness  from  hour  to  hour. 

When  the  day  fairly  broke,  I went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  All  cold,  cold,  and  grey.  Snow 
and  rain  and  sleet  had  fallen,  and  were  falling  still. 

Two  boys — I thought  from  the  voices — were  some- 
where below,  in  the  village  street. 

“How  is  Miss  Warner ?”  I heard  one  say.  And  the 
other  answered : 

“I  thought  she  was  dead? — ” 

And  I seemed  to  feel  it  no  more  than  mere  words 
about  the  weather. 

We  had  sent  for  our  own  Doctor,  but  he  was  away, 
and  this  morning  early  came  a substitute  from  his 
office.  A rather  young  man,  grave  and  kindly;  he 
made  a careful  examination,  supplemented  by  private 
words  from  the  rough  doctor  of  last  night.  Silently 
he  looked,  studied;  then  turned  to  me. 

“She  is  a very  sick  woman,”  he  said.  And  the 
words  came  from  my  lips : 

“You  give  me  no  hope?” 

“I  was  not  so  brought  up,”  he  replied,  with  a smile 
tender  and  sorrowful.  “While  there  is  life,  there  is 
hope.” 

But  I did  not  take  it.  I think  all  hope  died  in 
the  first  minute  I looked  at  her.  All  I could  seem 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885  503 

to  pray  for,  was  that  the  Lord  would  work  a miracle. 
He  could;  would  he  think  it  best?  No;  I did  not 
believe  he  would.  I prayed  my  prayer — but  as  one 
who  must  do  that,  or  die. 

I forget  just  when  it  was,  that  morning,  that  she 
half  opened  her  eyes,  and  gave  me  a faint,  sweet 
smile.  When  I could,  I hurried  to  the  next  room 
and  told  Aunt  Fanny. 

“Does  she  smile? — O then  she  is  better!”  cried 
the  dear  sufferer  of  so  many  years.  But  my  heart 
gave  no  answering  bound.  My  life  had  died;  its 
springs  were  broken. 

I think  it  was  soon  after  that  smile  at  me  that 
she  suddenly  opened  her  eyes  and  said  rather  eagerly, 
“How ’s  Father?” 

Ah,  he  had  been  for  many  a long  day  where  “the 
inhabitant  shall  not  say,  ‘I  am  sick!’  ” And  she  had 
forgotten! 

Catching  my  breath  as  best  I could,  I answered 
quietly : 

“He  is  well.” 

Again  she  lay  still,  with  closed  eyes.  Then  with 
the  same  suddenness : 

“How’s  Aunty?” — and  I could  answer  that  the 
night  had  been  fairly  good. 

Apparently  then  her  heart  was  quieted,  and  the 
hours  wore  silently  away. 

“You  do  not  know  me,”  said  our  kind  doctor, 
when  he  came. 

A faint  little  smile  came  round  her  lips,  and  without 
opening  her  eyes  she  said : 

“O  yes  I do;  you  are  Doctor  Mitchell.” 

So  consciousness  was  coming  back,  and  recollection. 
Next  morning  she  said  to  me: 


5°4 


Susan  Warner 


‘ ‘ I forgot,  when  I asked  you  about  Father  yesterday.” 

Yet  the  sudden,  sharp  attack  had  broken  the  con- 
nection with  later  things.  She  did  not  seem  to  realise 
in  what  house  we  were,  nor  how  we  came  to  be  there, 
saying  once : 

“Oh  how  wonderfully  good  the  Lord  has  been,  to 
arrange  all  this  for  us,” — as  if  it  had  been  just  for 
her  sickness.  For  she  was  just  like  herself,  in  every- 
thing she  said  or  did.  Once  when  our  Janetta  wanted 
to  render  her  some  small  personal  service,  she  demurred. 

“Miss  Susan,  I have  done  it  for  a great  many  ladies,” 
said  Janetta. 

“But  my  dear  Janetta,  I would  a great  deal  rather 
do  it  for  myself.” 

One  of  our  kind  neighbours,  admitted  to  the  room 
for  a moment,  exclaimed : 

“Why  how  peaceful  she  looks!  ” 

“Why  shouldn’t  she  look  peaceful?”  said  my 
sister,  slowly,  without  unclosing  her  eyes,  “when  all  is 
peace.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  had  warned  me  not  to  make  her 
talk,  and  so  there  passed  few  words  between  us.  What 
could  I say?  Only  a question  now  and  then;  a word 
or  two  as  I gave  broth  or  medicine.  And  the  dreadful 
tension,  the  numbness  of  thought  and  feeling,  made 
it  easier  to  keep  silence.  With  strained,  wide-open 
eyes  I kept  my  watch  from  Monday  until  almost  the 
Friday  dawn;  nor  ever  once  closed  my  eyes  in  sleep, 
nor  laid  my  head  down  for  even  a moment’s  rest. 
I think  it  never  occurred  to  me, — either  the  need, 
or  the  possibility.  Back  and  forth,  from  the  one  so 
deadly  ill,  to  the  other  whose  suffering  had  lasted 
years, — back  and  forth  I went.  To  keep  our  dear 
Aunt  Fanny  quiet  and  comforted,  so  far  as  might  be; 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885 


S05 


and  in  the  other  room  to  mend  the  fire,  and  straighten 
the  bedclothes,  and  wait. 

It  was  utterly  quiet  there  too;  whatever  she  felt, 
she  gave  no  sign. 

“You  do  not  suffer  at  all?”  some  one  said  to  her 
one  day.  And  the  calm  voice  made  answer: 

“Do  you  think  I can  lie  here  and  not  suffer?” 

But  what  lay  back  of  that  we  never  knew.  She 
did  not  speak  of  her  illness,  nor  did  we. 

One  of  those  early  days  of  restored  consciousness, 
she  asked  me  to  read  to  her. 

“What?”  I asked. 

“The  second  of  Hebrews.” 

Ah,  I could  guess  why.  She,  who  had  all  her  life 
long  been  “subject”  to  the  “fear  of  death,”  was 
testing  the  promise  now,  and  studying  the  words. 
But  she  made  no  comment,  and  I could  not.  Only 
she  never  again  asked  me  to  read.  Whether  the 
going  over  such  words,  with  me,  stirred  in  her  what 
she  could  not  bear — perhaps;  but  after  that  day  she 
would  ask  for  her  own  little  Testament,  and  read  for 
herself. 

We  had  arranged  a luncheon  party  for  that  week; 
and  one  day,  as  if  thoughts  had  kept  track  of  the 
time,  her  dreams  took  it  up  as  a present  reality. 

“Will  Mrs.  please  help  herself?”  she  began, 

with  the  gentlest  courtesy.  Then  a moment’s  pause — 
and  then,  just  as  if  she  had  spoken  too  soon,  forgetting, 
came  the  sweet,  clear,  deliberate  words : 

“Grant  us,  O Lord,  thy  blessing  upon  our  food  and 
upon  all  we  do,  for  Christ’s  sake.  Amen.” 

This  was  Friday  night.  Sunday  morning  Janetta 
said  to  some  one  in  the  room,  “It  is  Sunday.”  My 
darling  caught  the  word. 


5°6 


Susan  Warner 


“Sunday,  is  it?”  she  said,  without  opening  her 
eyes.  “Well — blessed  be  the  day.” 

Next  day,  when  she  had  been  ill  a week,  lying 
there  in  feverish  sleep,  the  gentle  tones  spoke  once 
again: 


“Ein  traues  Hirt,  ein  traues  Hirt.” 

Another  time: 

“ O when  I see  the  stars  in  the  morning, 

The  stars  in  the  morning.” 

But  we  had  no  intercourse , from  day  to  day,  and 
but  rarely,  I think,  did  common  thoughts  disturb  her. 
Once,  with  a troubled  voice,  she  broke  out : 

‘ ‘ I don’t  know  what  is  to  become  of  us  all ! ” thinking, 
perhaps,  of  her  unfinished  book. 

Another  time,  as  I stood  near,  her  eyes  opened  wide 
at  me,  startled  and  anxious,  and  with  a sort  of  excla- 
mation— O so  exactly  like  herself — she  said : 

“Child,  how  tired  you  look!” 

Again,  as  I stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  bending 
down  to  write  an  order,  she  said,  pleadingly: 

“Child,  don’t  work  too  hard!” 

I told  her  one  day  how  kind  people  were. 

“It  is  just  wonderful,”  she  said. 

“Thus  darkness  shews  us  worlds  of  light, 

We  never  saw  by  day.” 

Then — 

“How  good  the  Lord  is!  How  the  Lord  manages 
everything.” 

So  the  trustful  words  would  come.  But  I did  not 
dare  ask  her  how  much  she  understood  of  the  deep 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885 


5°7 


waters  through  which  we  were  passing.  And  often 
dates  were  confused  in  her  mind. 

“Nannie,  hadn’t  we  better  have  some  clams  for 
tea?  Don’t  you  think  so,  dear?  Would  n’t  that  be 
nice?” 

We  had  had  them — that  last  Monday  night. 

Once  when  I was  coaxed  to  go  for  a short  drive, 
she  seemed  doubtful  about  it. 

“Well,  don’t  be  gone  long.  And  when  you  come 
back,  I want  an  honest  cup  of  tea.” 

Perhaps  fever  had  taken  all  taste  away,  and  the 
cups  of  tea  had  seemed  flavourless. 

For  the  last  week  we  had  a trained  nurse.  But 
my  darling  would  always  take  things  for  me,  as 
for  no  other;  would  rouse  up  in  answer  to  my 
voice. 

So  the  days  wore  on,  through  the  second  week. 
“If  only  fever  does  not  set  in,”  the  doctor  said;  but 
it  had. 

Saturday  morning,  the  fourteenth,  she  spoke  up 
suddenly,  with  stronger,  brighter  voice: 

“I  feel  better.” 

“Do  you,  dear?”  I answered,  almost  breaking  down 
at  the  mere  thought.  Yet  somehow  I did  not  feel 
it;  the  words  brought  no  cheer.  And  as  the  hours 
wore  away,  and  night  drew  on,  there  seemed  to  me 
more  dulness,  less  quick  response;  at  least  so  it  would 
have  seemed,  had  I dared  put  my  feeling  into  words. 
I can  look  back  now  and  see  it, — yet  when  the  doctor 
asked  me,  “what  have  your  sisterly  eyes  discovered?” 
I answered  him,  “Nothing.”  And  so  once  more 
Saturday  night  and  Sunday  passed  by. 

Late  in  the  night  of  Sunday,  when  I had  lain  down 
for  a little  rest,  the  nurse  came  and  touched  me. 


5°8 


Susan  Warner 


“I  cannot  rouse  her,”  she  said.  “Come  and  see 
if  you  can.  She  always  hears  your  voice.” 

Ah,  not  that  time!  nor  ever  again,  but  once.  Long 
time  I tried, — with  every  endearment,  every  persua- 
sion; but  there  was  no  voice,  nor  any  that  answered. 
The  sleep  was  calm,  the  breathing  quiet,  with  no  sign 
of  suffering  or  unrest. 

Monday  the  doctor  came,  and  stayed  long;  trying 
powerful  stimulants — but  she  was  beyond  their  reach. 
One  of  our  very  dear  and  special  friends,  Mr.  Adams, 
came  from  a distance  and  sat  watching  her.  And  I 
took  the  powerless  hand  and  laid  it  in  his — but  she 
gave  no  sign.  He  broke  down,  weeping  there  at  her 
side,  but  my  eyes  wTere  dry. 

As  gently  as  I could  I told  our  dear  Aunt  Fanny, 
and  she  begged  so  earnestly  to  be  wheeled  into  the 
sick-room  that  I could  not  refuse.  And  there  we 
kept  our  watch,  the  patient  sufferer  in  her  wheeled 
chair  and  I,  for  the  rest  of  that  afternoon,  and 
all  through  the  night,  and  all  through  the  next 
morning. 

I cannot  tell  just  when  it  was  that  my  darling 
stirred,  and  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  full  at  me; 
such  troubled,  eager  eyes!  And  she  tried  to  speak — 
but  could  not. 

It  was  no  time  then  for  common  words;  no  place 
for  oneself , anywhere.  The  one  thought  was  to  com- 
fort her.  And  oh,  there  is  but  “one  thing”  in  all 
the  crises  of  life  or  death. 

“What  is  it,  love?”  I said,  bending  down.  “Is  it 
Christ  and  victory?”  And  instantly  the  eyelids  fell, 
the  dear  eyes  closed,  nor  were  ever  opened  again 
upon  this  weary  world. 

Yet  several  hours  more  went  by,  before  suddenly 


The  Winter  of  1884-1885  509 

her  head  drooped  to  one  side,  and  the  victory  was 
won. 

By  special  permission  of  the  Secretary  of  War,  she 
was  laid  in  the  Government  cemetery  at  West  Point; 
there,  where  so  many  of  her  “boys”  would  pass  near 
her;  so  many  at  last  come  back  to  rest.  From  almost 
at  her  feet  the  wooded,  rocky  ground  slopes  sharply 
down  to  the  river;  and  beyond  that,  for  the  other 
shore,  is  the  Island, — Martelaer’s  Rock, — with  the  old 
Revolutionary  house  where  so  much  of  her  work  was 
done. 


